


A Journey to the Past

by gallantrejoinder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, Identity Issues, Pining, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 27,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9569891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: Alayne Stone has no memories of her life before she came to an orphanage at the age of ten in the aftermath of the Russian October Revolution. Now, at the age of eighteen, she's being kicked out to find her way in the world - but she has a clue, three words inscribed on her oldest possession, a necklace: "Together in Paris."Alayne finds safe passage to Paris with with Lenya and Marg Tyrell, a grandmother and her granddaughter from Leningrad. Little does she know that Lenya and Marg are in fact con artists, determined to pass Alayne off as the lost princess Sansa.Yet Marg begins to feel uneasy lying to this strange girl about her motivations for taking her to Paris. Because there's a prize upon the return of Sansa Stark, a prize that will restore the former glory of the House Tyrell ...





	1. Margaery

**Author's Note:**

> I know this first chapter's a little short, but there will be longer ones to come! Consider this a prologue. Also: the historical inaccuracies are largely no worse than the film, and even corrected in some cases!

They are in Leningrad, they are poor, and it is bitterly cold. Absolutely nothing about that situation has changed for the last eight years except that now there are two of them, instead of three. Loras had made it out two years ago, with the help of a French fop named Renly. He is ready to send them money at a moment’s notice, of course, but unfortunately it has taken the intervening two years for Olenna and Margaery to cobble together passable exit papers. Furthermore, they’re still waiting on _the girl_.

“It’s a right situation, my dear. We can’t afford to waste time and be too picky. But if she’s not the spitting image of the duchess, well, there’s no point in even bothering.”

“I know, grandmother,” Margaery sighs, pulling her coat tighter around her as she struggles to get the theatre door open. Her fingers are shaking with the cold.

“I should hope you do. My sight’s not what it used to me, I’ll be relying on you to determine how alike the girls are. The acting, though – you leave that up to me.”

“Whatever you say.” Finally the door gives way, and Margaery enters the freezing, rickety old theatre quickly, to get out of the wind at least if not the cold.

“If she can’t name the three surviving siblings, definitely kick her out. We’ll have a lot to teach her either way, but some basic knowledge is rather required.”

Margaery hums in agreement, dragging some ancient-looking wooden chairs over to the unsteady table that will have to serve as their judges’ table.

“And whatever you do, make sure she doesn’t have a peasant’s accent. Bad enough that your own has gone so downhill, dear, we don’t need an actual _royal_ who sounds like a fishmonger’s wife,” Olenna continues, groaning as she settles herself down in the creaky chair Maragery pulls out for her. "And it won't hurt if she knows how to dance, of course, though I'm sure you could teach her, seeing as you insisted on knowing how to lead -"

“ _Grandmother_! I _understand_. We’ve been planning this for six months, I _know_. Make sure she looks like the duchess, make sure she’s a natural redhead, make sure she sounds royal, make sure she’s never taken naughty photographs in a racy magazine. I _know_.”

Olenna turns to Margaery as she sits down next to her with a huff, smiling. “I do apologise my dear. Of course you do. God help me if I had to do this with your brother.”

“Indeed,” Margaery sniffs, feeling slightly mollified.

“All we have to do now is wait for opportunity to knock.”

_Knock knock_.

Olenna smiles broadly, and Margaery sucks in a deep breath before going to the door of the old theatre and letting in whatever young girl with dreams of being a Stark is waiting on the other side.


	2. Alayne

Alayne Stone, at the tender age of eighteen, is being kicked out.

She’s been living at the orphanage for eight years now, suffering through scant, hungry winters and terrifying bouts of illness that spread through the children every few years like wildfire. The children, of course, are never a problem for her – as one of the oldest children who came to the orphanage in the aftermath of the October Revolution, Alayne has always cared for them like they are her own little siblings. It’s the unfeeling, apathetic man in charge who’s always been a problem.

“Mr Moore, please let me wait just a little longer – just until Alfy gets back from school, he’ll miss me, I know he will,” Alayne pleads, as Mr Moore continues to escort her towards the gate. The children wave from the windows, some looking forlorn, others too young to know what’s going on and simply curious.

“You’re eighteen years old, now, Alayne. Can’t keep you any longer. Can’t afford it. I’ve got you a job in the fish market,” he says, indifferently. Mandon Moore has never quite had the temperament for a man whose duty it is to take care of children.

“The – the fish market?” Alayne whispers, coming to a halt beside him as he reaches into his pockets to pull out her papers, of which there are next to none.

“Yes, the fish market. Not much work available for a girl without a name. You should be grateful.”

“Couldn’t I stay here? I could teach, the children are good – I wouldn’t ask for much in the way of wages –”

Mr Moore snorts, humourlessly. “Wages? I can’t even afford to keep you as it is, Alayne. And I wouldn’t speak of _capitalist vices_ so openly if I were you. Be off with you,” he says, thrusting her papers at her and nodding towards the gate.

Alayne looks over towards it, despairing. She cannot be some fishmonger’s wife.

“I only – I just want to save a little. To get to Paris.”

Mr Moore rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, _together in Paris_. Mark my words, girl – you stole that necklace and it means nothing to you, or anybody else. Consider yourself lucky I don’t confiscate it right now.”

Unthinking, Alayne’s hands go to her neck, reaching for the silver chain that hangs around it. But it’s there, safe and warmed by her skin underneath her scarf.

“Off. And don’t come back,” Mr Moore says, jabbing his thumb towards the gate.

Without another word, Alayne turns toward the gate and begins to trudge through the snow. She tries not to let any tears fall, lest they freeze on her cheeks and make her even colder than she already is in her threadbare, too-big dress and ancient boots.

But when she finally closes the gate behind her, she cannot help but turn back one last time, to wave at the children in the windows. She will miss nothing about this place – not the groaning winter winds, or the creaking floorboards, or the many nights she went to bed hungry – but she will miss the children. Without them, she has no one in the world to miss her or think of her.

Except, perhaps, whoever gave her the necklace. As she begins to trudge down the road once more, towards the great fork in the road where travellers often lose their way, Alayne cannot help but think on her imaginary family. Probably loyal to the emperor, judging by the wolf’s head pendent, but Alayne doesn’t care either way. And quite possibly wealthy, considering that the chain has never rusted or turned funny colours in all the years Alayne’s been wearing it. But what really matters are the words engraved on the back. _Together in Paris_.

If only she had a way to get there.

She’s reached the fork. An ancient-looking wooden sign points in two directions: one to the old fish market on the coast, and the other to St. Petersburg. The sign is antiquated enough to use the old name for the city, then. It must have been there since long before Alayne came to the orphanage. Perhaps even before she was born.

_I wonder if you know where I come from_ , she thinks blankly at it. And then shakes her head, because what is she _doing_ , talking to inanimate objects. Not even a half hour out of the orphanage and she’s already going mad with loneliness.

She sighs, and slumps down on a nearby boulder. There’s no one around, so she speaks her next thought aloud.

“I would like a sign, if you please. I know I don’t want to become a fishmonger’s wife. But there’s nothing for me in St. – in Leningrad. Is there?”

Nothing answers.

“Well then. Thank you,” Alayne announces to nobody.

She sits for a few more minutes, knowing that she’ll have to get moving soon to find somewhere to sleep before it gets dark. Just as she’s beginning to contemplate simply sucking it up and going to the fish market, she hears a tiny yap up the road.

Glancing up, it takes her a moment to spot the tiny puff of grey amongst all the white on the road. But there it is – a tiny dog, practically invisible amongst the slush, yapping happily on the road towards Leningrad.

Alayne blinks.

“Well, hello there. What are you doing out here, all alone in the snow?”

The tiny dog yaps happily again. Alayne gets up from the boulder and begins to walk towards it, curious. The dog runs the last few steps towards her, as friendly as if they have known each other for years. It sits before her, wagging its tail and simply begging to be patted.

Alayne grins, despite the situation, and kneels down. She ruffles its ears and it practically leaps into her arms, tiny enough to fit in one of her oversized pockets. She picks it up with a laugh.

“I suppose you’re as good a sign as any then, hey pup?” Alayne laughs, as the dog attempts to lick her nose. “I hope there’s no one out looking for you.”

The dog has no collar, however, and is a little on the skinny side – probably no one is missing it. After a quick inspection, Alayne determines that the dog doesn’t appear to have fleas, though is a little dirty, and is a girl. It primly sits in her great pocket, content as content can be.

“You’re a proper little lady, aren’t you? Do you mind if I call you that, Lady?”

The dog makes no sign, so Alayne takes it as a yes.

“I asked for a sign, and here you are. I certainly hope you know what you’re doing,” Alayne says to Lady sternly. Lady snuggles up inside the pocket.

So it is with a new, tiny companion that Alayne makes her way to Leningrad, as the afternoon wears on into the evening more quickly than she would like. Darkness washes over the land, yet bright lights in the distance move closer as Alayne slowly closes the gap between herself and the city. Finally, the houses around her begin to grow thick together and the taller buildings enfold her effortlessly into the night cityscape.

She has to ask for directions more than once, but finally finds her way to the train station.  Unfortunately, once she’s there – she has no idea how to get a ticket.

“Clear off. No exit papers, no money – no ticket. You must be kidding,” the man at the window says, laughing at her.

Dejected, Alayne blinks away embarrassed tears before turning away and attempting to make her way out of the station. Without warning, someone catches her arm.

“Hey. There’s a way to get ‘em, if you want ‘em,” a voice whispers, sounding slightly slurred.

Alayne whips around to see a large man has a hold of her. If the bursts of red in his cheeks did not give away his drunkenness, his breath would be more than enough evidence to show he is not well.

“I – I’m not –” Alayne stutters, suddenly afraid.

“Go to the old palace. Marg and Lenya, they can help you. They have papers,” the man continues, seemingly oblivious to Alayne’s distress.

“Who are you?” Alayne whispers.

The man giggles like a little child, the drink coming through. “Nobody. An old fool. But you can call me Hollard, if you ever want to thank me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alayne answers, nodding clumsily.

Hollard finally lets go of her arm, slumping against the wall with a groan and holding his arm over his eyes. Alayne spares him one last concerned glance before hurrying away.

It takes her very little time to discover the location of the palace, though when she asks for directions, she is told not to get caught trespassing there. When she finds it, it is boarded up – both the great fence surrounding it and the walls of the palace themselves are old and decayed beneath great boards of wood. Stroking Lady’s head, asleep in her pocket, gives Alayne the courage to keep searching for a way in.

Eventually, she manages to squeeze through a little crack near to the ground, and from there all it takes is patience to find a doorway that hasn’t been entirely covered as it ought. And through that door is a great hallway, dusty and aged, but sheltered – something grand in its wide berth and high ceilings.

Alayne cautiously takes a few steps forward, hearing them echo through the empty space. Much has been destroyed. Overturned furniture and heaps of junk lie everywhere, and when Alayne chances to crack open a book sitting on top of one of the piles, a musty smell rises from within the mouldy pages.

She keeps walking, disturbed by the sight of the ruined book. Every storybook that came into the orphanage was treasured, treated reverently as the rare joy it was. Alayne feels another pang at the thought that the books may yet be ruined without her there to look after them and keep the little ones from destroying the things they love.

Lady wakes up in her pocket, and begins to paw at her. She sets the dog down on the dusty floor, and follows her for a little while, reasoning that she doesn’t know where else to look from here, so she may as well let Lady lead the way. Following Lady leads her to a grand ballroom, as decayed as the rest of the palace, yet –

Yet there is _something_ , something she cannot put her finger on, about the place. She can almost see the ancient nobles, dancing in swirls of colour too fast to follow. The cracked paintings and hangings on the wall near come to life before her eyes, her mind filling in the details that have been lost to neglect over the years.

She walks to the centre of the room, swaying lightly, humming something half-remembered, waltzing with the ghosts of the revolution. Even Lady is quiet, seeming to sense the strange aura of the room, the dead practically present before Alayne’s very eyes. She stops moving, sinks to the ground, overcome.

She cannot _think_. There is something, something important about this place … She thinks that she _should_ feel that she ought to leave, but she doesn’t – the room feels familiar, not wrong. It feels sad, yes, but … under that, welcoming. Something like a lost childhood haunt, or a forgotten dream …

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be in here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, couldn't help but update so soon - I hated the thought of so little being up!


	3. Margaery

The auditions went terribly.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Olenna grumbles, as they sneak back into the palace for the night.

“To say the least,” Margaery says darkly, feeling bitter. The theatre had cost them more than they can afford to rent, and for nothing.

“That Val girl was almost all right. Shame about the blonde hair. Although that Randa … good Lord, I don’t know why she thought stripping was going to convince us of her ability to play a royal,” Olenna shakes her head, looking to the unobservant eye as if she were truly shocked. But Margaery knows her grandmother better than to believe her expression. Olenna Tyrell isn’t shocked by anything these days.

As they enter the palace once more, however, a real frown appears on Olenna’s face, and she holds up a hand to shush Margaery. Listening intently, Margaery shakes her head, unable to hear whatever it is that has her grandmother so concerned.

“Someone’s here, my flower,” Olenna murmurs softly.

Margaery feels her eyes widen, and nods in agreement. Olenna knows the palace inside out and back to front, just as she does – but Olenna’s instincts are never wrong when it comes to seeking out trespassers like themselves. Though her sight is largely gone, her hearing appears only to have sharpened over the years, both to gossip and danger.

“The ballroom,” Olenna says, in the same hushed tone.

Margaery sets off quietly but quickly in that direction, not waiting for her grandmother to follow. Olenna will go at her own pace, and besides, Margaery’s the only one who can put up a defence between the two of them.

She approaches the ballroom silently, avoiding every creaking floorboard and inching along the wall to peer around the corner. But when she finally sets her eyes inside the ballroom, there is only a girl – a skinny figure, sitting on the floor with a dazed look on her face. Probably a street urchin, judging by her clothes. A quick shout should scare her off.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be in here!” Margaery yells across the room, striding forward confidently.

The figure jumps and scrambles upwards, while a tiny dog appears out of nowhere and rushes towards her. The urchin picks it up clumsily and begins to stutter out an apology.

“I – I’m so sorry, I was told to come here. I didn’t realise I was trespassing – I’m looking for Marg and Lenya – is that you?”

Margaery stops walking, and sighs, placing her hands on her hips. _Wonderful. Another wannabe Sansa._ The urchin skitters to a halt, bumping into a large portrait behind her.

“Yes, that’s me. I’m Marg. But the auditions were an hour ago, and you’ve come to the wrong place. Those gates are locked for a reason, you know – tell me, how did you get in – in …” But Margaery cannot finish her sentence.

Because she’s looking at the spitting image of the grand duchess Sansa Stark.

The urchin continues to apologise, Margaery not hearing a word. The portrait the girl has stumbled into is of the royal family mere months before the revolution – the emperor and empress, Eddard and Catelyn, surrounded by their many children with smiles on their faces. And right next to the girl’s head is Sansa, the grand duchess herself. Margaery’s eyes flicker between the girl and Sansa, but there’s no mistaking it – they are one and the same, in hair, in eyes, in mouth …

“You there! I hope my granddaughter isn’t going to have to beat you to get you out of here, miss!” Olenna’s yell could not come at a worse time.

The girl’s eyes widen even further, if such a thing is possible, and Margaery hurries to reassure her.

“Oh, don’t worry about grandmother. She loves her little jokes. Tell me, what was your name?” Margaery asks, as Olenna slowly makes her way towards them.

“A– Alayne,” the girl says nervously.

“Alayne. I’m Marg, as I said. Grandmother,” Margaery announces, turning to find Olenna mere steps behind, “This is Alayne. Alayne, this is my grandmother, Lenya. Tell me, do you see any resemblance in Alayne to anyone we know?”

Olenna glances suspiciously at Margaery before tottering carefully over to Alayne to squint at her. When she does not react, Margaery coughs pointedly, and jerks her head at the portrait. It takes Olenna a moment, but then her expression shifts into one of amazement.

“Those same blue eyes!” Olenna cries.

“The Stark eyes,” Margaery agrees smugly.

“She has Lady Catelyn’s hair –”

“– And Eddard’s chin –”

“And the expression, that’s _all_ Lyanna,” Olenna continues excitedly. She turns back to Alayne. “Tell me, my girl. Has anyone ever told you that you have a remarkable resemblance to the grand duchess Sansa Stark?”

“Sansa Stark?” Alayne blinks. “I’ve never – I’ve never seen a picture of her. Did she not die with the rest of the Stark family during the revolution?”

“Not quite, my dear, not quite,” Olenna chuckles.

“Look behind you,” Margaery says, gesturing to Sansa in the portrait. Alayne turns, but her expression does not change much. Just a tiny line between her eyebrows – that’s all Margaery has to go on, before Alayne speaks.

“I suppose … I mean, a passing resemblance, perhaps,” she says, hesitantly.

“You honestly can’t see it?”

Alayne bites her lip, looking doubtful.

“Well, even if you can’t, we certainly can,” says Olenna, sound miffed.

“I just don’t see why it matters. I was told – I was told to come to you for exit papers. You see – well, it’s going to sound ridiculous, but I don’t really know where I came from. I was found wandering around as a child with no memories of my family, but I have a clue that they might be in Paris. That’s where I’m trying to go,” Alayne says, finally turning away from the portrait to look at Margaery.

Margaery raises a single eyebrow. “How interesting. We’re going to Paris soon, actually … we do have a spare ticket, but, there’s a small problem.”

“Problem? What is it?” Alayne looks interested.

Margaery sighs exaggeratedly, and she sees Olenna smile just a little with approval. “The third ticket is for _her_ , I’m afraid,” Margaery says, pointing at Sansa.

Alayne’s expression can only be described as dumbfounded. “The dead duchess? I didn’t realise they let ghosts travel,” she says, holding the dog in her arms a little closer.

“Ah, but she’s not dead. Not according to the rumours, anyway. We’ve been searching for her. Though, we’ve never seen _anyone_ who looks as like her as you do.”

“Oh, honestly,” Alayne looks annoyed now. “I really don’t see it. I’m nobody. I just want to get to Paris, I’m sorry, I can’t help you find the duchess.”

“We don’t need to. We’ve found her,” Olenna interrupts, giving Alayne a pointed look.

“… You want me to impersonate a duchess,” Alayne says, flatly.

“Oh, god no,” Margaery says, feigning a horrified look. “We would never. What are we, conmen? No, no. We only ask because, well, how can you _not_ be her?”

Alayne huffs and begins to walk away, but Margaery continues talking, undeterred. “Found wandering around as a child, with no memory as to where she came from. No legal status. A clue to family in Paris, exactly where the remaining Stark siblings now live. And of course, your looks … You must admit it’s intriguing, at least.”

Alayne slows, finally stopping as Margaery’s speech finishes. Margaery smiles. _Gotcha_.

Alayne turns, eyes lifting towards the portrait where Olenna still stands, leaning on her cane pleasantly. Margaery sees – _something_ , passing over Alayne’s face. She seems to come to a decision.

“I suppose … I mean, it seems unlikely ... but not entirely impossible,” Alayne says, that tiny worry line between her eyebrows appearing again.

“Not impossible at all, my dear,” Olenna says, tottering towards them. “In fact, I can say with confidence that by the time we get to Paris, you’ll believe it yourself.”

Only Margaery hears the mischievous, not entirely benevolent, tone to Olenna’s voice. Alayne simply smiles shyly, stroking the dog in her arms with the kind of tenderness Margaery had frozen out of her a long time ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!! P.S.: Is anyone else really pumped about the stage musical adaptation of Anastasia?


	4. Littlefinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for implied pedophilia (and sort of incest?) and stalking/obsessiveness. More details can be found in the end notes.

He’s never been so close to finding her, or so far away. Years of searching, months of travel at a time chasing empty leads, and nothing has ever turned up, not until now. The orphanage is just outside Leningrad, laughably close to the city where she grew up, to his own home – but no matter. He has a direct trail to follow now, and that is all that matters.

The past eight years of frustratingly slow progress, and the decade before that spent destroying the empire from the inside out – it all means nothing to him if he can find her. _Sansa_. Even her name gives him a little thrill, still. She’ll look so much like Cat by now, he’s sure of it. Like Cat in every way, but _his_ this time. That is all that matters.

Of course, it was just his luck that he arrived at the orphanage a day – a _day_! – after she was forced to leave, and the idiot in charge sent him away to look in the fish market. That hadn’t panned out, of course, but he still felt something like affection for her in his heart, knowing that her royal blood – Cat’s blood – would never let her work in such a filthy, stinking place. More hours wasted, but there was only one other place for her to go – Leningrad. Her home.

She must remember it. Must remember him, too … How he practically raised her when Ned was forced to go fight in the front line during the Great War. He had asked her to call him papa, though she never did. But she never told Cat, either.

He slips into the station after a fruitless day of searching, trying to find a familiar face. Since his supposed death, no one recognises him as Littlefinger, the last advisor to the Starks, but he’s made many friends under the name Baelish since then. It isn’t long before he spots a drunkard, slumped against the wall and snoring, that he knows.

“Hello, Hollard,” he says, with a pleasant smile, before kicking the man awake.

He startles and makes an undignified noise at the sight of Petyr standing before him.

“Oh god, no – no –” His eyes are wild, no doubt assuming that Petyr is a hallucination born of drink, or at least the lack of it.

“I’m afraid _yes_ , Hollard. It’s me. But never you mind all that. I’m looking for a girl, I was hoping you might have some information.”

The man gapes, mouth floundering like a dying fish. Petyr sighs.

“I’m afraid it’s rather urgent, Hollard. About eighteen, red hair … a certain noble turn of expression, perhaps?” Petyr prompts Hollard, concealing his impatience with the man’s obvious incompetence.

Something passes over Hollard’s face, and Petyr latches onto it. “Oh, you have seen a girl of that description?”

Hollard nods, never losing his terrified expression.

“Excellent. Could you tell me where she went, Hollard? I’m terribly worried about her. I would be willing to, ah … compensate you,” Petyr says, unsubtly reaching for his breast pocket. Men like Hollard do not respond well to subtlety.

“She …” Hollard begins, before hesitating.

Petyr kneels before him. “Drink is expensive these days, Hollard,” he whispers, once more having to lay it all out clearly before the drunkard.

Hollard nods, dumbly, before swallowing. “There was a girl like that. Yesterday. I sent her off to the palace for papers.”

“The palace?”

“Yes – there’s an old woman there, and her granddaughter. On the lookout for a girl with her looks, too. Something to do with the lost duchess. I thought – I thought she could pass for her, and she said she wanted to go to Paris … So I sent her to the palace,” Hollard says, trembling a little. The symptoms of withdrawal must be catching up with him, Petyr surmises, since he can see no bottles nearby.

“How did you know she wanted to go to Paris?” Petyr asks, silently cataloguing the information. The old woman and the granddaughter … Whoever they are, they have no idea they’ve stumbled into the real thing. Con artists of their ilk are common since the announcement of the considerable sum of money offered for the duchess’s return. They make Petyr’s search wretchedly difficult.

“She was at the ticket window. She asked, straight out – one ticket to Paris,” Hollard says, shrugging. His eyes do not leave Petyr’s pocket.

“Thank you, Hollard,” Petyr says, reaching for the money before pressing it into his hand. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Hollard nods, but Petyr doesn’t deign to glance back at him before heading for the ticket window. From there it’s a simple matter of asking for the next train to Paris – tomorrow, at 9.00 am.

Petyr books his ticket with nothing less than enthusiasm, but before he can leave, he feels a tug on his jacket sleeve. Curling his lip, he turns to berate whatever street rat has dared to touch him – but it is only Hollard, once more.

“I’ve no more money for you,” Petyr says, coldly.

But Hollard looks desperate. “There’s more. The old woman and her granddaughter – I think – no one’s got any proof, but they all say they’re both former nobles. No one knows who. But they know they’re not who they say they are.”

“… Nobles?” Petyr asks, mind quickly working with the little information available to think of who they might be.

“Yes,” Hollard says, swallowing. “Some said it couldn’t be. The old woman is a foreigner. But she speaks like a noble, sir, I swear it.”

 _A foreigner_.

Suddenly Petyr knows exactly who he’s dealing with. Old enemies of the court, daring enough to still live in the palace itself after all these years.

And if Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter have Sansa Stark, then unlike the common con man, they must know exactly who they have in their care.

Which means that it is imperative that they be found before they poison Sansa’s mind against him, and ruin all his plans forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE LITTLEFINGER. Yeugh, writing his POV is nasty.
> 
> Detailed content warnings: Littlefinger is obsessed with Sansa and has been trying to find her ever since she disappeared, as he intends to marry her. This obsession is based off his obsession with Catelyn, whom he also thinks of during this chapter frequently. Pretty much the whole chapter is littered with his incredibly nasty thought patterns regarding the two women. He recalls on occasion asking Sansa to call him Papa, which is where the weird pseudo-incest comes in.
> 
> Anyways, he discovers that Sansa has left her home, the orphanage, and is travelling to Paris with the Tyrells, after he pays off Hollard. He intends to follow.
> 
> Sorry to update with such a gross dude, LMAO. Gotta have that Rasputin stand-in.


	5. Alayne

“I still say bringing the dog along was a bad idea,” Marg grumbles, seated across from Alayne.

Alayne frowns, pulling Lady closer, but doesn’t respond. _What does Miss Marg know anyway, hmm?_ she thinks at Lady. Lady simply snuggles closer into her arms.

Lenya cackles. “I say it’s only appropriate. The Stark sigil was a wolf’s head, why not bring the Stark duchess along with a pup?”

“Thank you, Lenya,” Alayne says, trying to ignore the inference of her potential royalty. It still makes her uncomfortable to consider – she still doesn’t _really_ see the resemblance that seems to have had such a profound effect on Lenya and Marg. Of course, Lenya’s sight is poor, but Marg … Alayne does not know how to explain Marg’s reaction.

An awkward silence falls, Lenya squinting down at some pamphlet or another by the weak light of the window. The train chugs along with the kind of speed Alayne has never experienced before, unsettling something in her bones. Marg stares out the window, a blank expression on her face.

“So, Marg,” she begins, unsure of how to converse now that they are settled. “Have … have you and your grandmother lived in Leningrad long?”

Marg glances at her, turning away from the window. “All my life,” she replies shortly.

“Ah,” Alayne says, feeling foolish. “And – you, Lenya?”

Lenya snorts, as if Alayne has said something funny. “My girl, you could have just asked. I’ve been made well aware that the colour of my skin makes me stick out like a sore thumb in Russia – this land of white snow and pale, sniffling people.”

Alayne blushes. “Oh, I didn’t mean …”

Lenya waves a hand, dismissive. “I came from Ethiopia, many, many years ago. Worked under Emperor Rickard, until I caught the eye of Marg’s dear old grandfather, a proper Russian noble. Luckily I managed to charm Empress Lyarra into letting the marriage occur. Though it caused quite the scandal nonetheless.”

“Then – you are nobility?” Alayne asks, unable to comprehend how someone as stooped and weathered by age as Lenya might have once been one of the nobles depicted in the colourful portraits of the palace ballroom.

“ _Was_ , dear. _Was_ nobility, before all that terrible business with the revolution,” Lenya says, sounding regretful. “Marg and I are the only members of our once great house left in Russia, and even that is soon to be no longer. We’ll be meeting with Marg’s brother in Paris.”

“But – I thought we were to meet the surviving Stark siblings?” Alayne inquires, confused.

“We _are_ , Alayne,” Marg interrupts sounding irritated. “Grandmother is simply being … frankly, a little too open, considering we haven’t even left the country.”

“I don’t see the harm in telling Alayne a little about ourselves, considering what we have asked of her,” Lenya says, sweetly. She appears to have an argument with her granddaughter with only her eyes – one which she must win, because Marg folds her arms across her chest and huffs.

“I’m sorry,” Alayne says, quickly. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s done, but she can sense the tension in the air.

Lenya reaches over to pat her knee. “Never you mind, dear. Marg isn’t used to having to be so honest. And don’t apologise to us – it isn’t royal behaviour, you know.”

Alayne feels jolted once more by the knowledge of why exactly Marg and Lenya have agreed to travel with her. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be used to hearing the words ‘royal’ and ‘you’ in the same sentence.

“Yes, well … I mean, there’s no certainty of that, surely. I have no idea how to behave like a duchess,” Alayne says truthfully.

“Which is why we shall teach you,” Lenya says, smiling. “We ought to get started as soon as possible, actually. I’ve no doubt it will all come flooding back to you yet.”

“I don’t know about that,” Alayne says, twisting her hands together in her lap.

“Nonsense. You are of royal blood, my dear, I can see it with my own two eyes,” Lenya says, tapping the side of her head.

Marg snorts. “Well. There is a resemblance. But considering _your_ eyesight, grandmother, you cannot blame poor Alayne for doubting us.”

Alayne ducks her head, trying not to smile. Lenya scolds Marg for a moment, but quickly turns her attentions back to Alayne and all she will need to learn.

They ask her all sorts of questions. Can she read and write? Yes, she loves to do both dearly. Can she sew? Yes, but only to mend – no fine needlework for her, there have never been enough supplies for such frivolities. Does she have any knowledge of the royal house of Stark? None whatsoever, her education having forbid it since the first days of the Bolsheviks. Can she dance?

“Not at all, I’m afraid,” Alayne says, self-consciously.

“She cannot dance,” Lenya says, thoughtfully. She nudges Marg, seeming to convey something important.

Marg rolls her eyes. “Yes, grandmother. I will teach you,” she says, turning her eyes to Alayne. “I can lead and follow, have no fear of that. We’ll have to wait until we’re off this train, though, it’s far too cramped to learn any dance of note.”

“Whatever you think is appropriate,” Alayne replies. “Are you sure – are you sure this isn’t lying?”

Marg opens her mouth to respond, but Lenya speaks before Marg can get a word out. “Not at all. You say you have no memories before the age of ten, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then who’s to say you didn’t simply forget how to dance? And with eight years having passed in a dreadful orphanage … You can hardly be expected to have kept up a royal education under such conditions, your grace,” Lenya says, with a twinkle in her eye. Alayne tries not to show the embarrassment she’s feeling on her face.

“Indeed, _your grace_ ,” Marg says, though her expression is much less merry than Lenya’s.

An hour or so passes in that manner, before Lenya gets up to have a look around, ignoring Marg’s protests that she’ll fall and break a hip. And then, Alayne and Marg are left alone in the cabin together, for the first time since Marg first spotted her in the ballroom a day before – though it feels more like a lifetime. Alayne lets the silence fall for a few minutes, Marg returning to her position of staring out the window at the white landscape passing by.

“You think you’ll miss it? Russia?” Alayne blurts out, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

Marg turns curious brown eyes on her. “It was a place I once lived. End of story,” she says, dispassionately.

“You said you’d lived in Leningrad all your life,” Alayne presses, uncomprehending. “It was your home.”

Marg shakes her head. “Not to me. Why, will you really miss it?”

Alayne pauses before responding, considering. “It wasn’t … it was never perfect. At the orphanage … we often went hungry. The children got sick, we lost some of them. But I took care of them. They were my family.”

“There you go, then,” Marg says, raising her eyebrows cynically. “You miss the children, not Russia.”

“No,” Alayne says, something inside her resisting the statement, for reasons she cannot explain. “Russia – this country is important. It is unlike any other.”

“In misery, perhaps,” Marg says, laughing humourlessly. But her eyes are curious.

Alayne shakes her head again, something itching inside her, desperate to show Marg that it _matters_ , the country itself is _important_. “No, it’s – I cannot put my finger on it. But I know I will miss it. Even the snow, and the bitter winters,” she says, sure of that despite her uncertainty about everything else in her life.

“Well, not me, as I said,” Marg says, turning her face back to the window. “My grandmother and my brother are all I have left. My family died in this country, murdered or starved. It means nothing to me anymore. It is a graveyard, nothing else.”

Alayne stays quiet at that, stroking Lady’s head where she lies on the seat beside her.

But some part of her cannot help but think that that is a very sad way to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read my other Sansaery fic, the Easy A AU, you'll know I headcanon Margaery as being mixed race. I was initially a little stumped when I first set out to write this fic because there are very few Afro-Russians prior to the creation of the Soviet Union. I considered just writing it as if Margaery (and Olenna) were white, since most people do anyway because of the show's casting and the novels' European-esque setting. 
> 
> But then I thought, fuck it, I'm going to write my own headcanon anyway. 
> 
> And it doesn't contradict history overmuch! Olenna seems like the kind of woman who would take a chance and move far away in the hopes of greatness, and historically at about the time she would have emigrated, the Ethiopian Empire had just ended a period of isolation that lasted from the 1750s to the 1850s. Also, during my research I found at least one example of an Afro-Russian who was a member of the nobility, Abram Petrovich Gannibal, (though he was once a slave, and this was a little earlier than Olenna's time.) You can read his story here. Of course, he was not actually Ethiopian as has been sometimes suggested, but Olenna is.
> 
> Let me know what you think, I always respond to comments. :)


	6. Margaery

Alayne has gone to ‘freshen up’, as she puts it, and Marg is almost beginning to think she really _must_ be royal if she uses such euphemisms for a lavatory trip. Unfortunately, it’s not convincing enough.

“She cannot act, Grandmother. She can hardly even slant the truth, let alone deny it altogether,” Marg complains, as her grandmother sits serenely before her on the other side of the cabin.

“She’ll learn,” Olenna says, sure.

“And if she doesn’t? We’ll never get our money and we’ll have wasted even more on dragging some street urchin to Paris for nothing,” Margaery says, annoyed. Though she may have spotted the girl, she hadn’t expected her grandmother to want to leave quite so soon, without making sure of Alayne’s ability to act.

“She will, my flower. Don’t worry so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had an unspoken attraction to her, what with all this uncharacteristic concern for her wellbeing,” Olenna says casually.

Margaery sputters, briefly robbed of the ability to respond. An _unspoken attraction_?!

“That’s not – _what_ ,” she says, eloquently. “And I’m not worried about _her_ , I’m worried about _us_. Family first. Always.”

“If you’re scared about the fact that she’s a young woman instead of a young man, don’t be. I must admit I was a little disappointed in your brother at first when he made his … proclivities clear. But it all worked out rather nicely when he snapped up that Baratheon fellow in Paris. In fact, it might work out even better for you if Alayne convinces the Starks she’s one of them. Forget the reward money, we could live off her,” Olenna says, sounding pleased at the thought.

Margarey gapes at her grandmother. “I’m going for a walk,” she says shortly, before rising and leaving the cabin without another word.

It isn’t long before she gets stuck behind a bickering middle-aged couple, blocking the corridor as they squint at their exit papers. Just as Margaery is about to huff and ask them to move, however, her ears catch on something important.

“Last month, they were blue!” The stout woman in front of Margaery grumbles, waving her papers about haphazardly.

“Nonsense, dear. The exit papers have been red for six months now, Vlad made sure to tell us all if any of us were thinking of leaving. Said he nearly made the same mistake himself,” the older man with her responds.

Margaery stops breathing for a moment, before surreptitiously reaching into her pocket to pull out her forged exit papers. She opens them slowly, still holding her breath, but –

_Blue_.

They waited too long to leave.

Forcing herself not to rush too quickly back to the cabin, Margaery’s heart pounds so loudly she’s surprised it can’t be heard over the roar of the train rushing along. Luckily, she discovers as she reaches the cabin and pulls the little door shut behind her that Alayne has already returned, sitting comfortable with her grandmother and chatting.

“We need to leave,” Margaery blurts out, without thinking.

“… Not that I doubt you, dear, but I’m a little old to go leaping off moving trains,” Olenna says, perplexed.

Margaery scrambles to find her hastily stuffed away exit papers, yanking them out of her pocket and opening them to the first page. “Blue. The last six months they’ve been in red,” she says, struggling not to sound panicked.

“Wait – are – are all our exit papers _falsified_?” Alayne says, sounding shocked.

“It was the only way to get out of Russia and given that yours are just as fake as mine, you’re an accomplice. So I wouldn’t act judgemental,” Margaery says, testily. “Grandmother, what do we do?”

Olenna stands and begins to pull down their luggage. “Baggage car. We’ll hide out there until we get over the border, and we’ll find our way from there. But we cannot afford to get caught now,” Olenna says, seriously, while struggling with a particularly heavy bag.

Margaery quickly assists her, throwing her pack onto her back and hefting the two remaining bags off the ground. Alayne, looking stunned, stands uselessly behind Olenna, who has her bag clenched in a bony hand.

“If you wouldn’t mind, your grace,” Margaery says, handing over one of the bags to Alayne. She blinks, and takes it without a word.

Margaery takes the lead, charging towards the baggage car with nary a care for the passengers they have to cross on the way. Olenna is next, with Alayne bringing up the rear and occasionally assisting Olenna when she has trouble navigating the rocking train. But when all is said and done, they make it to the baggage care without encountering any ticket inspectors or guards.

“It’s freezing,” Alayne gasps, as a shock of cold air hits them upon opening the door.

“Sadly we’ve been demoted for our crimes, your grace,” Margaery says, repressing a shiver of her own. “But better this than whatever the government might dream up for us.”

“Oh, of course – I’m sorry,” Alayne says hastily. Margaery almost sighs. The girl simply cannot stop apologising, and it’s not fitting for a royal.

“No apologies, dear,” Olenna says, voicing Margaery’s thoughts as she steps through.

Margaery shuts the door behind her, sealing them in the dark carriage. It is a little roomier than their cabin, if absolutely frigidly cold.

“Well. Let’s settle in, ladies,” Margaery announces.

Olenna moves to settle herself amongst a pile of luggage that will make for a chair in a pinch, while Alayne gingerly sets down their luggage nearby and sits on the floor, leaning against the side of the carriage. Margaery dumps her bags with Alayne before going to sit by the door.

“Where are you going?” Alayne asks, sounding surprised.

“Someone has to keep watch. In all likelihood no one will bother us here, but you never know. I’ll keep an ear out for guards,” Margaery says, from across the carriage.

Alayne looks down. “Oh, I see. I only thought –”

“What?” Margaery says, more than a little tired and desperate to simply be silent and save her energy for getting warm.

“I just thought you might be warmer by me,” Alayne says, blushing. Or perhaps her nose and cheeks are simply pink with the cold.

“Oh,” Margaery says, taken aback by the unexpected kindness. “No, I’ll – I’ll be fine here.”

Alayne nods, and looks away, before saying something quietly to Olenna. Olenna responds and before Margaery knows it, the two of them are engaged in a quiet conversation without her. Alayne fiddles with something under her scarf, listening attentively. Margaery simply sits, watching Alayne from the door where colds winds whistle through the floorboards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: Uni's going to kick my arse this week, so updates may be a little slow. However, I will still be checking my inbox regularly, so by all means comment <3 It gives me strength!


	7. Littlefinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Typical Littlefinger content warnings, he's gross and weird and obsessed with Sansa.

He can’t find her.

How is it possible to lose a girl on a train? There is next to nowhere to hide, yet every cabin he’s peered into – apologising profusely, playing the part of the idiotic traveller – does not contain her.

Perhaps he waited too long after boarding, wanting to appear unhurried and relaxed. Sansa would never evade him, of course, but those Tyrells … They are a tricky sort, to have survived so long, and the old woman is sharper than she appears. Always has been, since the days of the royal court. It’s possible they’ve taken extra precautions, even gotten wind of his own plans, though Petyr thinks that Hollard’s drunkenness should have taken care of any possibility of that.

He’ll have to engage in a little play-acting, then.

“Ex- excuse me, sir?” Petyr stutters out, adopting his most agonised expression. The guard he’s currently accosting turns from his companion with a cynical look on his face.

“Toilet’s down that way,” he says, jerking his head. Petyr tries not to be insulted.

“Oh, no sir – I was wondering if you could help me find my daughter? We were meant to meet in our carriage when we departed, but I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find her.”

The guard’s expression changes, and he glances at his companion. The companion, a moustachioed man, speaks next.

“Your daughter? Could we have a description?”

“Of course, of course. She’s about eighteen. Red hair, just like her mother,” Petyr titters. “And pale blue eyes. I’m ever so worried about her.”

The guards glance at each other once more, before nodding. The blonde, non-moustachioed man gives Petyr a grim smile. “We’ll find her, sir. Come along.”

Petyr simpers and gives them thanks, but unfortunately, half an hour later he’s no closer to finding her. All of the cabins have been searched, plus the dining car and all the other publicly accessible spaces. The guards are starting to look as concerned as Petyr feels now, and his play-acting feels a little less forced.

“Are you sure there’s nowhere you haven’t looked?” Petyr asks, nervously tugging on his sleeves.

The blonde guard chews his lip a moment, before looking at the moustachioed guard and shrugging. “The baggage car, maybe?”

Petyr feels a sudden rush of excitement – _of course_. The Tyrells are more than clever enough to have figured out such an excellent spot to hide.

“No, she’s not a runaway. Why would she hide from her own father?” The moustachioed man snorts, shaking his head. Petyr feels anger boil over in him before he can help it.

“ _I want to see the baggage car_ ,” he barks.

The two guards turn their faces to him, looking surprised – and a little suspicious, perhaps. _Damnit_.

“Or – perhaps you’re right,” he says, adopting his earlier, nervous tone. “Yes, of course. I can’t see why she’d hide from her own father in such a place.”

“Right,” says the blonde, frowning.

Petyr clasps his hands before him, and sighs. “Well, gentlemen – I will simply have to send a telegram at the next station, perhaps make a call … I do love her so, I hope she is safe. Perhaps she was delayed. Tell me, when do we cross the border?”

“We’ve already crossed, sir,” the moustachioed guard says. “Next stop is about …” He checks his pocket watch, pursing his lips. “Half an hour from now. Get off there, maybe, and see if you can get a line back to Leningrad.”

“Oh, thank you,” Petyr says. “You’ve been very helpful. I shall do exactly that.”

With that, he walks back to his seat, careful not to let his nervous demeanour drop until he is well behind closed doors.

Half an hour is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY LMAO.


	8. Alayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Period-typical ableism, mentions of violence (I suppose that's a given?)

The train slows and stops, and by the frown on Marg’s face, Alayne knows that it was not meant to do that.

“What’s wrong?” Alayne ventures, when Marg holds up a hand for silence, peeking out the door. Marg frowns, listening a moment more before responding.

“There must be something on the line … I think we ought to leave,” Marg murmurs.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Lenya says, and Alayne starts. She had thought Lenya was sleeping.

Lenya rises with a groan from her perch upon some suitcases, and Alayne scrambles up quickly to help her. Marg has already begun to gather up their bags – Alayne does a double take, certain they have one more now that they did not have before. But her uneasiness at travelling with potential thieves must take a back seat, because Marg is attempting to shove the door on the side of the carriage open, straining against the massive block of wood.

Alayne joins in, without a second thought, and between the two of them, the door groans and slides back, opening to reveal a landscape that is no longer entirely clothed in white. Trees line the tracks, though Alayne cannot see how far back they go, while muddy slush covers the ground.

Marg jumps out first, holding out her arms to help Alayne down expectantly.

“Come on, your grace,” she says, when Alayne hesitates, looking mistrustfully at the slushy, slippery ground below.

Alayne nods and sets down the bags beside her, before climbing down into Marg’s arms. For a moment, they’re chest to chest in the cool air, Marg’s breath coming in smoky wisps and mingling with Alayne’s own. But the moment passes, and Marg gently releases Alayne from her grip in order to assist her grandmother. Alayne turns back to the train and gently picks up and sets Lady down on the ground beside her, where the tiny dog waits patiently for her mistress to start moving.

In the end, the Marg and Alayne have to carefully lower Lenya down together, considerate of the old woman’s fragile hip. But once she’s set down, they grab their bags in nothing short of a hurry and quickly head for the cover of the treeline.

The entire time, Alayne’s convinced they’re going to be caught – they have no valid exit papers, they stowed away on a train, and worst of all, she’s a poor orphan with no friends actively trying to pass herself off as the lost duchess Sansa Stark of Imperial Russia. But as they hurry away from the train, nobody seems to notice their flight. Her fear keeps her jumpy and energetic for the next few hours, the landscape gradually clearing of snow despite the cooling temperature of the late afternoon sun. But soon, after they’ve trudged in silence for God knows how long, Alayne finds herself wondering: _What next_?

“A bus,” Lenya answers, when Alayne voices this thought. “We’re near the town the train was going to stop at anyway, but we’re taking the long way around so as not to get caught. We’ll get a bus from there to Germany.”

“And from Germany?” Alayne asks.

“A boat, direct to Paris. And from there …”

“We will meet the surviving Stark siblings,” Alayne finishes quietly.

Marg stops walking, turning to her with an apprehensive expression, as if she had bad news to relay.

“… Is that not the entire point of this venture?” Alayne asks, beginning to feel suspicious.

Lenya stops now, too, before sighing and sitting on a boulder by the side of the dirt path. “It’s a little more complicated than that, dear.”

“How so?” Alayne asks, scooping up Lady into her arms so that she can pat the little dog to soothe her still roused anxiety.

Marg drops her bags on the road, resting a hand upon her cocked-out hip. “No one may see the Starks without being interviewed. Especially a prospective Sansa. You’re not the first girl to have claimed to be her.”

“I didn’t claim that,” Alayne says, feeling a little hurt. “You said I – that I looked like her, not me.”

“Sure, but that story’s not going to fly with the Reed siblings.”

“The Reed siblings?”

“Trusted advisors to the Stark siblings, allies since the revolution,” Lenya explains. “Royalists who smuggled the younger boys out of the country, though they lost the youngest, God rest his soul. The Starks and the Reeds trust no one who has not been vetted by the boy, Jojen, not to mention his sister, Meera. Practically a new dynasty of their own, so the newspapers tell it – there were some rumours of a marriage between Brandon and Meera, a few months ago, but … Well, without the use of his legs, it seems unlikely.”

“So – I have to do an interview with this Jojen Reed before I can see the Starks?” Alayne asks, trying not to let her disappointment show.

“Not just Jojen – both of them,” Marg answers. “When it comes to Sansa claimants, both siblings are always present.”

“I see,” Alayne says, quietly.

“Don’t worry, though, my dear,” Lenya says. “I’m an old friend of Howland Reed, the children’s father.”

“That’s – good?” Alayne says, uncertain. She glances at Marg, who nods, confirming her assumption.

“It is good,” Lenya continues. “Nevertheless, you must be convincing. Arya Stark has proclaimed that the siblings will see no one who does not pass the Reeds’ tests. And we have no way of predicting what they will be, so your education will have to be thorough.”

“And you are former nobility, so you know everything about – about her,” Alayne concludes.

“Precisely, my dear, but I’d get used to using first person when speaking of her grace, the duchess, if I were you.”

“Right,” Alayne says, subconsciously holding Lady a little closer. Lady whines a little, though, so she sets her down.

Lenya rises from her boulder, and Marg quietly picks up the bags she’d set down. The three of them begin to walk down the path once more, following Lenya’s lead – though in truth, it is Lady who runs ahead.

“I’ll tell you what, dear, why don’t we begin your lessons properly now? You already know about the Reeds, perhaps a little family history is in order,” Lenya muses aloud. “Marg, if you would.”

Marg straightens up just a little, so subtly that Alayne suspects that Marg doesn’t even know she’s doing it, before speaking.

“Yes, grandmother. Well, can you name the former tsar?” Marg says, addressing Alayne.

“Yes – Tsar Eddard Stark, first of his name. He was married to Catelyn, although I don’t know much about her …”

“Catelyn was called Tully, before marrying the tsar. She was a German princess. Grandmother says their marriage was quite happy,” Marg says, reciting the facts from committed memory.

“It was. Anybody could see it – rare for royals to marry for love, but they made it work splendidly after Eddard’s brother died and the throne passed to him.”

“Brother?” Alayne inquires. Beyond the tsar and tsarina, her knowledge of the imperial family is scant.

“Brandon, the elder. Passed away of the same fever that took his father, Tsar Rickard. It was a terrible blow to the family, and Russia, of course. But like grandmother said – Eddard made his unexpected marriage work,” Margaery explains. “He had two other siblings, apart from Brandon. Benjen and Lyanna, both younger. They died in the early days of the revolution, shot by a firing squad.”

“That’s terrible,” Alayne says, shivering. She’s always been taught that the imperial family of Russia were greedy, weak rulers, unworthy of study or remembrance. But to die, facing down a firing squad, knowing that they would never see their loved ones again …

“It is what it is,” Marg says, expressionless. “But here’s where it gets tricky – the Stark siblings who survived, Eddard’s children. Do you know anything about them, other than what we’ve told you?”

“No, I told you – they wouldn’t teach us about the imperials at the orphanage,” Alayne says.

“There were six of them. Young Robert, the heir. A dashing young man, who was shaping up to make a great leader. He was the first child of Eddard and Catelyn to die, to ensure there would be no heir. Because tshe next one, Jon … Well, he was in a strange position.”

“Why?” Alayne frowns, struggling to recall the names that Marg is throwing outs, but coming up blank.

“He was a bastard,” Marg says bluntly.

“A bastard?”

“Indeed. Eddard’s son, supposedly, but no mother to be found. But there were rumours. Rumours that he wasn’t Eddard’s son at all, but Lyanna’s.”

“Lyanna’s?” Alayne gasps. Lenya chuckles.

“Oh, yes, my dear. The Stark family, like every other royal family of Europe, had its secrets. Lyanna disappeared, secluded for two years, at about the time Jon arrived in the royal household. But Tsar Eddard decreed that the boy was his son, and one does _not_ go against the word of the tsar,” Lenya says, shaking a bony finger at Alayne.

Marg nods in agreement. “So, technically, they could have let him live. He had no claim to the throne. But they shot him too.”

“Oh, god,” Alayne says, feeling queasy. She knew all of this, didn’t she? She knew the imperial family had been destroyed, has always known it. There was no way she could not. But she never knew the details.

“Unfortunately for them, they mucked it up. He survived. Made it to Paris, and has stayed there ever since, with his siblings. Or cousins, as the case may be ... They say he’s never been the same since. Quieter – maybe mad. But what else should nearly dying do to a man?”

Alayne doesn’t answer, sensing that Marg is not really asking.

“Anyway,” Marg sighs, “He didn’t die. The Reeds, as Grandmother said, managed to smuggle Arya and Brandon out of the country. They had Rickon with them, too, but … Well, no one really knows exactly what happened, they’ve kept it very hushed up. But at some point, they were forced to split – Arya made her way to Paris alone, to meet Jon. Meera and Jojen remained with the youngsters. And when they arrived in Paris, Rickon was dead and Brandon had permanently lost the use of his legs.”

“Let me guess. They were shot?” Alayne asks, without any humour.

Marg shrugs. “As I said. It’s not commonly known exactly what happened.”

“What about –” Alayne stops, bites her lip. She doesn’t know how to ask.

“Sansa,” Marg says, a strange look upon her face. “Yes.” She pauses a moment more before continuing. “No one knows what happened there – if they did, you wouldn’t be here.”

The faint lights of the town on the horizon are beginning to glimmer in the greying evening. Alayne looks forward, resolutely. _Of course no one knows what happened_ , she thinks, feeling foolish. _Don’t be stupid_.

Lenya speaks up, when Marg continues her silence. “There are many rumours, my dear, too many to count. Some say she was with the Reeds and their young charges. Others say she went with her sister, and got lost on the way. And still others, of course, say she was simply shot with her eldest brother, or the rest of her family. I pay it no mind.”

“No?” Alayne asks, curious. “Why not?”

Lenya smiles, and reaches out a wrinkled hand to clasp Alayne’s arm. “Because I know where she is right now. The rest does not matter a whit.”

Alayne does not know what to say to that, so she ducks her head and stays silent, and so does Marg. Soon enough they reach the town, where Lenya manages to book the three of them tickets for a bus that leaves within a few hours. In the meantime, Alayne explores the train station where the buses stop, grateful to discover a public lavatory. It’s while she’s washing her hands in mercifully warm water of the tap that Marg confronts her.

“What do you see?” Marg asks, suddenly. Alayne jumps, not having seen her in the doorway.

“Pardon?”

“In the mirror,” Marg says, jerking her head towards the tiny mirror above the tap. “You should be acting the part of a duchess, but you still apologise and act humble, you never demand anything or command anybody.”

Alayne blinks, glancing into the mirror, unsure, before looking away quickly. Marg steps forward, unexpectedly, and grasps her shoulder tightly.

“No, don’t do that. Look in the mirror. What do you see?” Marg, for her part, is staring resolutely at Alayne.

Alayne looks into the mirror, the warmth of Marg’s hand on her shoulder all she can think of. It feels like it’s burning.

In the mirror, she sees a wide-eyed girl. Naïve. _Foolishly sentimental_ , Mr. Moore used to say. He never said it anger, never spat it at her like an insult. Just shook his head and stated it as the fact it was.

Her reflection continues to stare at her, the uncertainty in her eyes on display for the world to see. Dirt is smudged against her cheek, and her hair has not been combed properly in two days, at least. She’s flushed from the cold, ugly red splotches on her cheeks and nose like blotches of ink on paper.

She hates herself, suddenly, a conscious realisation of something she has quietly accepted for several years. It makes her want to lie down exactly where she is and never get up.

“I see a nobody,” she says, at last. “With no past, and no future.” The lump in her throat will not dissipate.

But then Marg’s hand tightens upon her shoulder as she speaks. “Lenya does not see it that way. My grandmother sees herself in you, the way she once was. An engaging and determined young woman who might as well be born royal – only you might _actually_ be, unlike her. That’s why she chose you.” Marg’s tone is fierce, as if she needs – really _needs_ – Alayne to believe her.

“I thought it was you that saw the resemblance, that day at the palace. With the portrait of Duchess Sansa,” Alayne replies, sensing somehow that Marg is trying to communicate something she cannot understand.

Marg looks taken aback. “I … I did. Yes. You look so alike, I don’t know how you could be anyone else.”

“You should have just told me that,” Alayne says, with a sad half-laugh. “The way you worded it almost makes me think your grandmother just wants to turn me into her.”

“Well, she’s been trying to do just that to me for years,” Marg admits, smiling self-deprecatingly.

“I’m glad she hasn’t succeeded.”

The words are out before she can think over them.

And there’s something in Marg’s face, something Alayne cannot place – something in the way her eyes widen just a little, and her jaw tightens as she swallows. If Alayne didn’t know any better, she’d say Marg looked as if she had hit her.

She does not know what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lot of backstory this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it, though! 
> 
> Decided not to kill off Lyanna in childbirth, because why not? It means Jon got to at least know his mother a little, though whether he knew she was his mother ... hmm! As for Jon himself, I couldn't resist including an homage to ADWD with his 'death'. Whether he'll come back different is up for debate, but he certainly did in this AU. Bran lost the use of his legs as per canon, because well, y'know, disabled people exist, and Arya just managed to make it. And poor Rickon, Robb, and the previous Stark generation did not survive :( 
> 
> Olenna's comments about Bran not being married are ableist as hell, I know. Sadly in character for her and the time period :(
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


	9. Littlefinger

He's an idiot, and he’ll possibly never forgive himself for it, but he hadn’t realised at first that the train was stopping too early. Only after poking his head out to see if the other passengers were alighting had he overheard one of the guards reassuring a passenger that they would reach the stop soon, that it was a temporary delay.

He thought he’d have time to find her, but by the time he realised what was going on …

Entering the baggage car and seeing the side door wide open, facing the treeline, had almost caused him to lose his temper.

Almost.

He reassesses, instead. Considers his options, and Sansa’s. No doubt she had been forced to participate in the escape by the Tyrells, sneaking, conniving women that they’ve always been, since the days of court. He remembers how carefully Olenna Tyrell used to watch him, whenever he stayed in St. Petersburg. The old woman has been, physically at least, quite frail, in all the time he’s known her. But her mind … That is as sharp as ever.

The train will take him to Paris if he stays on it. Considering that Sansa could be anywhere by now, and it will add many days to her journey however one considers it, he will reach Paris before her if he stays. He could set up plans there, consider how best to take her home with him, back north – if not to Russia, he can give her the north, at least. Unlike those selfish Tyrell women, thinking only of their reward, of the money.

If he cannot get to her before the Tyrells poison her further, he can at least ensure that once in Paris he does not have to worry about her running _to_ anyone. The Reeds are the obvious choice – without them, the remaining Starks will close rank forever against hope, he is sure of it.

But he will rid the world of all the Starks but Sansa if he must.

When he returns to his seat, face unmoved and as blank as if his plans have not fallen through for the hundredth time, no one takes a second glance at him. He is glad of it, for the most dangerous man in the world is the man no one thinks of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry - another Petyr chapter. Rest assured the next chapter will have lots of Margaery and Sansa :) Please let me know what you think!!


	10. Margaery

It takes several days, but finally, they reach the boat waiting for them on the German coast. In that time, Olenna constantly talks about the history of the Starks – and indeed, the entire royal court. She knows it all, observant as she is, and gives Alayne several details that Marg is sure are not public knowledge.

Since that night at the train station, Alayne is a little bolder with her questions, constantly wanting to know more. She stands a little straighter, makes jokes here and there. It makes Margaery’s heart ache strangely, something inside her unable to divorce Alayne’s new confidence from the girl who looked herself in the mirror and said she saw nobody.

By the time they’ve arrived, though, Alayne knows so much more than she did before. She can name Starks, living and dead, back generations. She’s naturally polite, so her knowledge of what constitutes royal manners only makes her more charming. And she can sing, too – a fact that Margaery discovers one day while Alayne is resting by a stream, nearby the bus station, half-humming and half-singing some tune that Margaery does not know. That, like so many things since the train station, makes Margaery’s stomach erupt with flights of birds. But there is one thing that Alayne does not know, still – she does not know how to dance.

And Margaery will have to teach her.

That’s why she’s on her way below deck with a package in her arms, having allowed Alayne an hour or so to settle in with Olenna in their cabins. Luckily, Alayne is exiting her cabin into the narrow hallway at just that moment. She smiles to see Margaery, and Margaery has the sudden urge to giggle at nothing.

“Evening,” Margaery says, shaking off the feeling.

“Hello, Margaery,” Alayne says, still smiling. “What’s that?” She gestures to the package in Margaery’s arms.

“A present. For you, of course,” Margaery says, holding it out for her.

Alayne’s expression turns to one of shock. “You didn’t have to – no one’s ever gotten me a gift before,” she says, taking the package hesitantly.

“Don’t get too excited,” Margaery says, shifting uncomfortably on her feet. “It’s necessary for Paris.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and see!” Margaery replies, beginning to feel anxious about whether Alayne will like the gift after all. She’d chosen it so carefully, but …

Alayne carefully unfolds the brown paper the gift is wrapped in, and pulls out a long length of pale blue fabric. She holds it up, and her expression transforms as she realises what it is.

“A dress,” she whispers, sounding awed. Margaery can’t see why it should provoke such a reaction. It’s a department store thing, simple and relatively cheap.

“For when you meet the Reeds,” she explains. “Can’t have you wearing _that_ old thing.” She raises her eyebrows pointedly at Alayne’s ancient, oversized dress.

Alayne runs the fabric of the blue dress over her hands, something wonderous in the way her eyes follow it.

“It’s beautiful,” Alayne says, quietly.

“Ahh, it’s all right. Don’t get all mushy on me,” Margaery laughs, feeling awkward.

“I always wanted a dress like this – there was never enough to go around at the orphanage, of _anything_ , so you took what you were given. But this is – oh, it’s _beautiful_ ,” Alayne repeats, and Margaery rubs the back of her neck, embarrassed.

“Go try it on. It’ll look even better on a pretty girl,” Margaery says, winking to brush off the warm fluttering in her stomach that is currently making her feel slightly sick.

Alayne grins and spins around to re-enter the cabin, coming out again within minutes. Margaery looks up, having been studying her hands to avoid thinking about Alayne too much, but then –

Then she sees her.

In the two minutes that Alayne’s been inside her cabin, she’s managed to pull her hair back into a ponytail, curls framing her face where they’ve slipped out of the loose style. She must have washed her face quickly too, because there’s a pink flush to her nose and cheeks. And the dress …

The dress hugs every curve that Alayne’s old, baggy, mustard-yellow dress has, up until this point, hidden. Alayne might have grown to become even curvier, had she not grown up starving – Margaery can see that in an instant, from the width of her hips and the tiny bit of baby fat that lingers around her chin. From beneath the edge of lace over her shoulders, Alayne’s collar bones peek out, too thin. She is a contradiction, this strange girl from nowhere. Softness and strength all mixed up together.

Alayne clears her throat, and does a little twirl. Margaery realises she’s been staring for far too long.

“You look – um, beautiful,” Margaery stutters out. It’s not her smoothest moment.

“You think?” Alayne says, looking shy.

“Yes. Yes, you do,” Margaery says, honestly. Alayne looks _gorgeous_ , like a picture-perfect princess, like – like she ought to be kissed.

“I hope neither of you are seasick,” a voice announces, and Margaery jumps. It’s Olenna, poking her head out of the cabin next to Margaery and Alayne’s. “Because it’s about time you learned to dance, Alayne, and the sun’s setting soon.”

“Of course,” Alayne says, promptly. Margaery simply nods her acquiescence.

Up on deck, Olenna produces a tiny chair from somewhere to perch upon while she watches Alayne and Margaery dance. Margaery has changed into trousers for the venture, figuring it will be easier for Alayne to picture the men she’ll have to dance with when she’s – when they reach Paris.

They stand a little awkwardly before each other, before Olenna taps her stick on the ground, ordering them to take up the first position of a waltz. Margaery places her hand on Alayne’s waist, before explaining what Alayne must do.

“Your hand goes on my shoulder – no, the other one. That’s right. And your other hand goes in mine, out, like this – yes.”

Alayne stands straight-backed and a little stiff, following Margaery’s directions silently, obedient as ever. It makes Margaery want to make her laugh.

“I’ll take the lead, obviously. Pretend I’m some handsome fellow you’ve had your eye on,” Margaery teases, and Alayne’s porcelain face cracks into a smile.

“Less of that, more dancing,” Olenna grumbles from the side. Margaery just laughs.

Olenna begins tapping her cane to a beat, and ordering both of them about. It doesn’t take long for Alayne to get the basic gist of the steps, and soon they’re gently swaying in circles around the deck, Margaery careful to consider Alayne’s extra difficulty in learning the steps backwards. They’re so close – chest to chest, and now that Alayne’s got the hang of not looking at her feet, there’s nowhere for her to look except at Margaery. She feels the silence, which is occasionally punctuated by a comment from Olenna on Alayne’s technique, heavy on her shoulders. It makes her think of things she should not think of – like the fact that she’s lying to Alayne, the fact that she is nothing more than a conwoman taking advantage of a vulnerable young woman who trusts her.

“That dress looks beautiful on you, you know,” Margaery blurts out, desperate to drown the silence.

“You said earlier,” Alayne replies, with a teasing smile. “But thank you.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Margaery says, a little embarrassed. “I’m sure you must get sick of such flattery, your grace.”

“It’s all right. I don’t mind it when it’s you,” Alayne says.

Margaery wants to respond. She wants to say something flirtatious and meaningless, like she’s used to doing with men and the occasional women who’ve shown genuine interest in her. That’s what she _does_ , it’s how she survives. But when Alayne looks at her like that, with such tenderness in her eyes – she can’t make herself say something she doesn’t mean. Because she would mean it, for Alayne.

She steps back.

“I think you’ve got the hang of it, Alayne,” she says, ignoring the hurt look on Alayne’s face. “Are we done, then, Grandmother?” Margaery turns to Olenna.

Olenna has a contemplative expression on her face, and seems to have stopped tapping her stick some time ago. “Good enough for now,” she sniffs. “Your grace needs her beauty sleep – best get below deck. There’s a storm coming in anyhow.”

Alayne nods quickly and wraps her arms around herself before departing for her cabin, looking back only once in Margaery’s direction to say good night to Olenna. Once she’s gone, Olenna gets herself up, leaning heavily on the stick as she walks to stand beside Margaery, who’s made her way to the railing.

“I encourage it, my rose,” Olenna says, steadily. “It can only benefit us.”

“We’re lying to her,” Margaery whispers. She doesn’t need to ask what Olenna is referring to. Olenna misses nothing, and Margaery has made her attraction to Alayne foolishly obvious.

Olenna shrugs. “Yes, almost certainly, we are lying. Her looks are something, to be sure, but the chances of us stumbling over the real lost duchess are quite slim. You must consider, however, that if we pull this off we’ll have given a homeless child a loving family, and a fortune to boot. So I ask you – does it matter, to lie?”

Margaery turns to Olenna, desperate to argue that it _does_ matter, that she cannot let herself be loved by a girl she’s lying to.

But she’s never had any problem with lying before. And Olenna knows it, because she raised Margaery that way. So Margaery says nothing.

“I suspected as much,” Olenna says. She turns and slowly makes her way below deck, but Margaery pays no attention, eyes on the setting sun, ignoring the unhappy storm clouds brewing together behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally love writing dance scenes with ~romantic tension~, LOL. Especially between two girls, because that shit always gets reserved for straight couples :(
> 
> Let me know what you think, I thrive off comments! (Doesn't every fic writer?)


	11. Alayne

They’ve booked two cabins, a single being unavailable. Alayne had to smuggle Lady on board, and is keeping her in the cabin she shares with Marg so that the little dog will not disturb Lenya’s rest. She need hardly worry, however, as Lady is as obedient and quiet as ever. Marg and Alayne’s cabin is more than room enough for the tiny thing, even with a bunk bed taking up half the space.

She’s just letting her hair out of its ponytail, brushing it carefully before bed, when she hears a knock on the door. Her stomach flips, nervous that Marg will want to talk about – the thing that happened up on deck. Alayne’s … _obviousness_.

She’s never flirted like that before, still doesn’t quite understand why she did it. But Marg’s reaction could not have made it clearer that it was not welcome.

The door opens, however, to reveal Marg _and_ Lenya, which makes Alayne feel a little better. Lenya is a buffer between the two of them.

“Good evening, your grace,” Lenya says cheerfully. “We were wanting to check up on you before bed.”

“I’m all right,” Alayne says, politely. She’s hardly going to voice the storm of confusion currently swirling inside her brain. “And you?”

“Well, my dear, very well. I had something I wanted to show you.”

“Oh?” Alayne says, her interest piqued. Marg climbs up to her bunk and begins to wrap up her hair for the night, already in her pyjamas – she must have changed in Lenya’s room. Lenya sits on the bunk next to Alayne, reaching into a pocket to pull out something Alayne cannot yet see.

“This is one of our oldest possessions, Marg and mine. A lost relic of the empire.”

Alayne looks on curiously as Lenya opens her hand to reveal a tiny silver box, sitting delicately on the palm of her hand. It's decorated with grey mother-of-pearl panels and intricate engravings around the corners, evidently expensive. It is _exquisite_.

“Wherever did you find this?” Alayne breathes, as Lenya places the box in her hand.

There’s a snort from the bunk above, and Marg’s face appears upside down, her hair cascading in tight curls, only half wrapped. “We didn’t find it. I stole it,” she says, and there’s a bitter tone to her voice that startles Alayne.

Lenya waves a hand. “Details. It was the revolution, many trinkets and things went missing, and no one’s going to be looking for them when people are disappearing at an even more alarming rate.”

“It belonged to someone rich, of course,” Marg continues to explain, a red flush taking over her cheeks the longer she hangs there, close to Alayne’s face. “It came from the winter palace, how could it not? But we can’t open it. There’s a secret way, or a key we don’t have, or … something.”

“So you don’t know what’s inside?” Alayne asks, strangely disappointed.

“No. I shook it a little a few times, heard _something_. But I didn’t want to do it too much in case whatever is inside broke.”

“Of course,” Alayne says. At that, Marg disappears above to the top bunk once more.

Lenya taps on the bottom of the box, and Alayne turns it upside down to see. She gasps when she realises what she’s looking at.

“The Stark crest,” Lenya says quietly, sounding reverent. “Unmistakeable, see the detail in the wolf’s fur? This belonged to a royal.”

“Oh,” Alayne replies, unable to think of what to say.

“It might have even belonged to you,” Lenya says. Alayne’s heart feels wretched and full, all at once.

Before she knows what’s happening, the box disappears from her hand. She blinks, and looks up – Marg has swiped it.

“My case has a false bottom,” Marg announces from where Alayne cannot see. “I’ll keep it safe there.” There’s a shortness to her tone that brokers no arguments.

Lenya sighs, gently patting Alayne’s arm. “Off to bed, then, my dear. Sleep well. I hope my granddaughter doesn’t keep you up,” she says, and Alayne could swear the old woman _winks_ at the last statement.

After Lenya leaves, a tense silence falls in the cabin. Alayne has no idea how to break it, how to go back to the easy thing between them again. Marg busies herself preparing for bed on the top bunk, and Alayne finishes brushing her hair quickly. So she does not speak as she lies down to sleep, and doesn’t expect Marg to either.

But just as she’s drifting off, a tiny voice whispers in the darkness. “Good night, Alayne,” Marg says.

Alayne remains silent a moment, hearing her heart beat in her ears like thunder. “Good night, Marg,” she says, finally. There is no response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short one, I'm afraid. :) Almost regretting separating chapters by POV, but eh, too late now. 
> 
> [Cr1tikal voice] Remember to kudos the fic, comment the fic, aaaaaaaand subscribe if you wanna see fics similar to this one.


	12. Margaery

She’s woken by a loud bark of noise, and it jolts her upright so suddenly she hits her head on the ceiling. Swearing, Margaery scrambles down the ladder and blindly fumbles for the lamp, feeling the ship rock beneath her feet and sending her in completely the wrong direction. The noise continues at intervals, and by the time Margaery switches the lamp on, she’s realised it’s a dog barking – Lady.

Blearily rubbing at her eyes, she stares at the dog blankly for a moment, while Lady continues to bark and whine at her. She wonders at why the noise does not wake Alayne, and turns to shake her awake and ask her what the matter is with her blasted dog, but –

Alayne’s not there.

Alayne’s _not there_.

She spins in circles, half-thinking in terror that Alayne must be in the tiny room _somewhere_ , but of course there is nowhere to hide. Lady continues to whine, ears pricked anxiously. The ship gives another huge lurch, and Margaery stumbles a little into the door, which clicks shut as her weight falls on it.

_Wait_. If it clicked shut, that means it was open before – Alayne must be outside somewhere. Below deck, surely – the storm would not permit anyone on deck. Would it?

Margaery doesn’t allow herself to think on it as she shoves her boots on and bursts into the narrow corridor outside their room, closing the door behind her so she doesn’t lose the damn dog as well. She continues banging into the walls as the ship rocks her to and fro, and swears loudly, heedless of the passengers in the other cabins overhearing. Probably very few are sleeping during the storm, anyway. She doesn’t know how she stayed asleep so long herself.

After a cursory run of the corridors and the open dining room and common area, the dread quietly simmering in Margaery’s stomach is beginning to boil over. The only place left to look is on deck, unless she wants to knock on every cabin door and face the wrath of dozens of furious sleepers in the middle of the night. If Alayne is on deck … Well, Margaery can’t afford to waste time if Alayne is on deck in this storm.

Steeling herself for a moment, Margaery squeezes her eyes shut, pushing her palms into them.

_Come on, Tyrell, get it together. It’s only a little storm_.

The ship chooses that moment to send her sprawling on the hard wood of the corridor floor. Allowing herself a moment to groan and wallow in humiliation, despite the fact that no one could have seen, Margaery nevertheless gets back up – angry now, feeling almost insulted.

_That the best you can do_? She thinks at the storm, holding out her arms to the narrow walls to keep herself upright. _I’m a Tyrell. Everything you throw at me makes me stronger_.

Her spiteful thoughts accompanying her, Margaery finally makes it to the stairs leading up on deck, only a few metres down from their cabin. She struggles to climb up, hands white-knuckled on the railing as the ship groans around her.

Nothing could prepare her for what greets her when she throws open the door to the deck.

The world outside _screams_ , it envelops her like a speck of dust blown on the breath of a giant. Margaery gasps, the breath practically stolen from her lungs by the howling of the wind and the booming of thunder. Lightning flashes across the deck – once, twice – before darkness washes over the ship like the titanic waves that surround it.

Squinting into the rain, soaked to the skin in seconds, Margaery searches desperately for any sight of Alayne, still clutching the rail of the stairs desperately to avoid being washed overboard. The lightning keeps flashing, briefly giving her vision and allowing her eyes to sweep the deck – and finally, _finally_ , she spots a figure standing in the centre of the deck, standing eerily still in the chaos.

Giving herself no time to think, Margaery lurches forward, slipping and scrabbling her way towards the figure. The lightning gives her a brief glimpse once more, and Margaery sees a shock of red hair. It _must_ be Alayne. She would not risk her life for anyone else.

She’s almost reached her when a sudden wave crashes into the side of the boat, sending Margaery sliding into a railing. Luckily, the same wave has sent Alayne stumbling towards her. For the first time, Margaery can see that Alayne’s eyes are wide open with terror, yet blank at the same time, as if the terror she’s struck by is something beyond the violence of the storm surrounding them.

“Alayne! Alayne, wake up!” Margaery screams, voice disappearing into the wind as she stumbles the last few steps over to Alayne.

But even as her hands latch onto Alayne’s arms with a vice-like grip, determined not to let her go, Alayne does not wake. She frowns, instead, looking confused.

“Mother,” she says, the softness of her tone meaning that Margaery can hardly hear her over the storm. “Mother, mother – he’s coming to get me. He told me to call him papa.”

Even surrounded as they are by the current and pressing danger of the storm, Margaery can’t help but suck in a breath of surprise at Alayne’s words. Alayne is not supposed to have any memories of her family. Not supposed to have a _mother_.

“It’s all right! Just _wake up_!” Margaery shouts, shaking Alayne a little in her desperation.

The shaking must be a mistake, because Alayne lets out a whimper, and tries to pull away. “No, no, he’s coming. He’s coming after me. Father’s away. Away at war. He’s not my papa, he’s not!”

“Alayne! Alayne, for god’s sake, wake up before we’re washed overboard!” Margaery cries out, trying to hold on to Alayne. But Alayne continues to squirm, whimpering and letting out little choked sobs, unable to comprehend the danger surrounding them.

She must do it because she’s desperate, and afraid. Made stupid with terror. Whatever it is, it makes Margaery try something entirely unexpected.

“ _Sansa_!” Margaery says, firmly. “Sansa, wake up. _Wake up_. We need to go below deck. Wake _up,_ Sansa!”

And by some miracle, or coincidence – Alayne does wake. The blankness in her eyes is replaced, very quickly, with sudden awareness of the danger they are in.

“Marg?” she gasps.

“Yes, I know, now let’s _go_ ,” Margaery says, reasoning that there will be time for explanations when they’re safe.

Alayne doesn’t argue, simply clutches tight to Margaery’s arm as they slide and stagger like drunks towards the hatch that leads below deck. The wind nearly buffets them over twice more, but finally, they get down the stairs and Margaery slams the hatch shut behind them. Their panting breaths sound impossibly loud with the noise of the storm quietened.

Margaery turns to Alayne, wet through just like herself, and is surprised to find tears in her eyes. She looks like she’s been hit.

“Alayne? Are you all right?”

“What happened?” Alayne whispers back, shivering.

Margaery steps down from the stairs and begins trying to rub some warmth into Alayne’s arms, though she’s got precious little of her own to go around. “You had a night terror. Couldn’t wake you up. I s-saw you up on deck.” Margaery’s teeth have begun to chatter, the cold quickly setting in. “You wouldn’t wake up, at f-f-first. Got there in the end, though, h-hey?” Margaery tries to laugh.

Alayne’s head droops, landing on Margaery’s shoulder. She looks … miserable. Margaery gives in to the urge to wrap her arms around her. They stand there, shivering together, for a few moments.

“What were you d-dreaming about?” Margaery whispers, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

Alayne pulls back, a puzzled frown overtaking her features. “I – I don’t remember,” she replies, not looking Margaery in the eye.

There’s water dripping from Margaery’s curls, and a sheen of it turning Alayne’s already pale skin ghostly white. A small puddle is forming at their feet. They ought to get back to the cabin.

“Come on,” Margaery says, stroking her arms once more. “Let’s g-g-get warm. I’ve some towels at the top of my bag.”

She guides Alayne back to their shared cabin slowly, careful to steady her as the ship continues to rock and sway violently. Once inside, she strips off her pyjamas and wraps herself in a towel, offering one to Alayne and turning away while Alayne strips too. Lady is pleased to see them, tail wagging ferociously as Alayne quietly leans down to scratch her ears. Marg roots through her luggage and pulls out an undershirt to cover up her bare chest and a pair of underwear to replace her damp ones. The pyjamas, however, are a loss for the night. She sighs, and half-heartedly hangs them on the side of the bed in the hopes they’ll dry, doubting that they will.

Alayne stays quiet, looking troubled whenever Margaery catches a glimpse of her out of the corner of her eye. Margaery doesn’t ask what it is that makes her look so, though her curiosity is burning inside her. Who was Alayne talking to in her dream? She doesn’t have a mother or father. She _can’t_. The whole scam relies upon it.

“Marg?” Alayne’s voice is soft, but still sends a shiver through Marg in the confined space. She turns to look at Alayne, ignoring her confused thoughts. Alayne is standing small and vulnerable with the towel wrapped around the ends of her hair, having taken a leaf out of Margaery’s book and changed into an undershirt and underwear.

“Will you sleep in my bunk? Just for tonight?”

Alayne’s request sends a sudden surge of longing through Margaery, entirely inappropriate to the current situation. It nearly knocks her to the floor with the force of it, but somehow, she keeps her expression neutral.

“For the warmth?” Marg says, steadily. “Wouldn’t blame you.”

Alayne opens her mouth to speak, but seems to think the better of it, and simply nods, pulling the towel off her hair.

“Whatever you need, then,” Margaery says, pretending her heart is not pounding with excitement-trepidation-anxiety.

Awkwardly, Alayne shuffles past Margaery towards the bed. She slides under the covers, pulling them up over her shoulders and neck, seeming to burrow in. Lady hops up, not needing an invitation to curl at Alayne’s feet. It’s an endearing image.

But Margaery doesn’t dwell on it, simply towelling her hair off one more time before slipping into the narrow bunk beside Alayne. Alayne has curled up in a position facing away from her, so Margaery is rather forced to spoon her to make room for them both, not to mention Lady.

Margaery doesn’t want to think about it, wants to keep on pretending it means nothing to be so close to Alayne, and so far away at the same time. But sleep eludes her at just that moment, her mind occupied by thoughts of how the night has progressed – from their dance, a warm and distant memory, to the terror of waking and finding her gone. Gone from her. Gone to where Margaery could not keep her safe.

The bed is slowly warming the longer they lie there, each sacrificing a little of their own warmth for the other in the hopes that it will grow and swaddle their cold bodies in comfort. Alayne’s breathing is evening out now, the tension bleeding from her shoulders almost palpably. Hesitantly, Margaery moves her hand up to rest on Alayne’s waist, trying to get warm still – but Alayne does not react, does not twitch uncomfortably, and something inside Margaery relaxes. Sleep sneaks up on her without warning, making her slip into unconsciousness almost instantaneously, a dreamless sleep that leaves her feeling almost safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No magic here. Just nightmares, perhaps triggered by the memory of a little box ...
> 
> Also, this fic has art now! It's super sketchy and note very good, but I drew [this](http://sansasparkles.tumblr.com/post/157479450275/alayne-stone-has-no-memories-of-her-life-before) for my Margaery and Sansa headcanons of this fic. :)
> 
> I'd love to know what you think of this update!!


	13. Alayne

Their arrival in Paris is uneventful, but to Alayne, it feels like the most important moment of her life.

It’s the early evening when they finally reach the city. They’d had to switch to a little ferry to get up river, Lenya insisting that it would be the quickest way to get to the city from the coast. Now, however, they’re disembarking onto the banks of the Seine, exhausted but relieved to have made it so far.

Marg insists on carrying most of the bags, telling Alayne that Alayne cannot be seen acting like a servant now they’re finally in the same city as the Stark siblings. Alayne uncomfortably agrees to it, and so Marg trudges along behind while Lenya chats about how glad she will be to see her grandson again, a boy named Loras, as they walk along the dock.

“Not to scandalise your grace, but I’m afraid we will be staying with both my grandson and his lover – a young man named Renly, quite an irredeemable fop, I’m sure I’ve told Marg a thousand times. Though I’m told he actually fought in the Great War, which did come as a surprise to me, I must say.”

Alayne’s mind screeches to a halt, catching on the word lover. “His – your grandson’s lover is …” She cannot quite get the words out, for fear of offending. What if she’d heard wrong?

“Male. Yes, dear, my grandson is one of those dreaded inverts, or is it homosexuals these days? I can never keep up with the changing mores of you young folk. But I don’t complain, though the lack of grandchildren is an issue. Renly’s a very nice young man, and very rich,” Lenya says conversationally.

“I see,” Alayne says, unsure of how else to respond. She’s blushing, and wishes she wasn’t – as if she has any right to judge, considering her own … feelings.

“In any case, he should be here to meet us soon. I sent a telegram ahead while we were still on the coast – I do hope he received it.”

Lenya needn’t worry, though, because there’s an excited shout, and a young man the spitting image of Marg comes sprinting out of the crowd and nearly knocks her down as he leaps into Marg’s arms, squeezing her tight.

“Margaery!” he shouts. _Margaery_? Marg must be a nickname, then … or more likely a pseudonym.

The almost constantly guarded expression on Marg’s face completely shatters into a blinding grin as she holds her brother in her arms, laughing. Lenya smiles as the two chatter in greeting before Loras finally turns to her.

“Hello, Grandmother! A little more notice would have been nice,” he says cheerfully.

“Always be on your guard for the unexpected, Loras,” Lenya sniffs. “Have I taught you nothing?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Loras says, looking dangerously close to rolling his eyes – an expression that reminds Alayne strongly of Marg. The two of them might be twins.

“That you are. I hope you’ve got room for the three of us.”

Loras’s eyes finally catch on Alayne, standing awkwardly by the family reunion. “You must be our lost Sansa, then!” he says cheerfully, taking her hand and dramatically bowing to kiss it. “Your grace.”

“Just Alayne, for now,” Alayne says, blushing a little. If she didn’t know he was a – well, she might be feeling a little starstruck right now – Loras certainly has a charm about him.

“And I’m sure Alayne is tired and ready to get a good night’s sleep,” Marg says sharply, and Loras grins at her.

“Whatever you say, sister. Let’s get going – we’ll take a tram to the flat …”

Loras, like his grandmother, is quite chatty, continuing to speak about his life and ask them about theirs the whole way to his flat. Alayne, though, stays quiet for the most part, preferring to take in the city unfolding around her. It’s huge, and different from Leningrad – there are cobbled streets, flowering vines, and buildings not designed to keep out the cold but rather let in the warm. The tram itself is crowded and squished in, but Alayne doesn’t mind, finding herself listening quietly to the conversations going on around her even as she’s unable to understand them. Before she knows it, they’re alighting from the tram in front of a beautiful building, with flowers and vines growing up the side and a tiny café at the bottom.

Loras lets them in through a side door and they climb the stairs up to the third floor, where Loras and Renly’s flat is. Alayne doesn’t know enough about Paris to tell whether they’re in a bad part of town or a good one based on the building alone, but she suspects the latter when she sees that Loras only has one lock on the door. Renly must be well-off then, just as Lenya had said.

Finally they enter the flat, where a man with startlingly blue eyes and long black hair rises to greet them from a comfortable-looking couch in the centre of the room. He smiles just as freely as Loras does, and Alayne thinks she’s never met so many cheerful people in her life. Marg smiles a lot too, but … never freely, and honestly, like these two do. Loras rushes forward to kiss Renly on the cheek in greeting.

“You must be the Tyrells. And the lost duchess, of course,” Renly says, nodding respectfully towards her. It makes Alayne feel shy.

“Alayne,” she says, shaking the hand he holds out to her.

“Ahh, she doesn’t stand on formality then. I respect that. Peach?”

Alayne blinks, as from somewhere inside his waistcoat, Renly produces a perfectly ripened peach and holds it out to her.

“No thank you,” she says, as politely as she can.

“Loras, we’ve had a long day,” Marg – _Margaery_ says pointedly, from behind Alayne. “Perhaps we could see where we’re sleeping?”

Loras jumps to attention from where he’s standing beside Renly. “Right. Well, Renly and I will be staying in the guest room on the floor so you, Margaery, and Alayne, can share the bed in there. Grandmother will be sleeping in our room. Unless her grace would like the room to herself?” He directs the last question towards Alayne, whose eyes widen involuntarily.

“Oh, no – I can share. I’m used to it, and with Lenya’s hip being the way it is …”

“Good choice, my dear,” Lenya chuckles, shuffling forward with her stick to stand beside Alayne. “It’s only for a night or two anyway. I sent another telegram to the Reeds informing them of our intentions to see them as soon as possible. It may be that we’re out of here by tomorrow night, if we’re lucky and they respond soon.”

“So soon?” Alayne blurts out. She’d thought … she’d thought there would be a few days at least, in Paris, before she had to become Sansa Stark.

“If we’re lucky, yes,” Lenya replies, sounding pleased. “So rest up.”

But Alayne does not rest easily that night. Crammed in next to Margaery for another night, her head whirls fast with thoughts she can hardly catch on before another flutters through, provoking the anxiety in her stomach. Margaery’s body is a little stiff beside her, and Alayne wishes she knew if that was normal for Margaery or not – the morning after the storm on the ship, she’d awoken to a warm, empty bed, Lady her only companion. She can’t remember how it felt to have Margaery in the bed with her, at her side. Across the room, Renly snores, but Loras breathes as quietly as Margaery does, head resting on Renly’s shoulder. It is hard not to feel jealous of him, to wish that she had someone to hold her like that. Someone with a true smile that Alayne can distinguish from the false ones.

She spends the rest of the night tossing and turning in the bed, getting little sleep. She doesn’t know how Margaery fares, but this time, Alayne gets up before her, early in the morning after having given up on any hope of more sleep. She walks out to the window that overlooks the main room of the flat, opens it just a little to let in the air. She breathes deeply, willing her nerves to calm.

It isn’t long before Margaery joins her, though, ending her solitude. She sits silently by Alayne at the window, leaning on the sill. The quietness continues for several minutes, punctuated only by the sounds of the city waking up, filtering in through the window.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Margaery asks, and Alayne cannot stand to beat around the bush right now.

“Do you think I’m her? Do you think I’m Sansa?”

Alayne stares at Margaery, eyes searching for honesty. But Margaery’s face is hard to read, as always. She looks back at Alayne, swallows. She looks … indecisive. Finally, she speaks.

“I think … yes. I think you’re Sansa Stark.” She doesn’t say anything else.

Alayne gets up, heading to the kitchen without another word. She starts pottering about so the noise of the plates will drown out her thoughts and she can pretend that she believes Margaery. It’s not long before the other rise and join her for breakfast, complimenting her on the measly meal she manages to put together with what’s in Renly and Loras’s cupboards.

Alayne is just working up the courage to ask whether it would be possible to go sightseeing today when there’s a knock at the door. Renly rises first, but Olenna shoots him down with a glare and shuffles towards the door herself. She murmurs quietly with whoever is at the door, and accepts a note into her hand, eyes scanning it quickly before she murmurs something further to the guest and closes the door unceremoniously. She turns to the rest of them, still gathered around the table, not speaking, breathless to hear whatever the message is.

“A little old-fashioned, the note. I’ve never believed in ignoring more convenient technology,” Olenna sniffs, slowly making her way back to the table.

“ _Grandmother_. What did they want?” Margaery says impatiently. Alayne’s stomach churns.

Olenna sits down at the table and passes the note to Alayne, not speaking.

Alayne clutches the note in trembling hands, scanning the words as fast as she can.

 

_To the Lady Olenna Tyrell, of Russia,_

_News must not have reached you. It has been declared that the Stark siblings will see no more pretenders to Sansa’s name, the pain of so many lies being too much for their health._

_However. Considering your friendship with our father, and your familiarity with the old court of Russia, Jojen and I have agreed that we will meet with you, just once, later today. Come at 12, and we will see this girl. We can make no promises._

_Yours, &co.,_

_Meera Reed_.

 

By the time she’s finished reading, Alayne feels lightheaded. The note feels fragile in her white-knuckled fists.

“Well?” Loras says.

Alayne looks up, swallowing her fear. “They’ll see me today, at 12,” she whispers, feeling faint.

The table erupts into chattering and cheering alike, Renly coming over to slap her on the back in congratulations, but Alayne feels sick. She can’t do this. She’s just a homeless, anonymous, poor girl from a backwater. No one will believe she’s a duchess.

The next few hours pass as if in a dream. Lenya – or is it Olenna, like in the note? – sends her off to dress herself in the blue gown Margaery got for her. Margaery does her hair, uncharacteristically quiet as she fashions it, pulling two locks from the front to the back in a bow, letting it hang low so her red hair is on display. Olenna quizzes her, and Alayne recites all of her answers perfectly, having memorised the facts so well by now that she hardly remembers not knowing them.

Finally, the time comes to leave. They hire a cab to take them to the address provided by the Reeds, not wanting to be seen alighting from a common tram. Renly and Loras stay behind to take care of Lady, though they assure Alayne their hopes are with her, while Olenna and Margaery go with her. In the cab, seated between the two formidable Tyrell women, Alayne struggles not to do something hysterical – like giggle, or break down in tears, she can’t decide which.

They pull up, eventually, at a grand house on a wide boulevard that speaks to the wealth of its owners. Alayne tries not to feel overwhelmed, but it hits her that this is real – that she is about to discover whether she passes for a duchess, whether she is that duchess. Stepping out of the cab, she takes a deep breath in, and steadies herself, reaching up to touch the silver chain at her neck to be sure it’s there. She needs to know. If she ever wants to find her family, she needs to know.

When they knock on the door, it’s answered promptly, and they’re quickly ushered into a richly decorated sitting room, all in shades of green and brown. They sit in silence, Alayne beginning to tense up with nerves once more, but then – there’s a hand on her own. She jumps, and looks to her left on the little sofa they’re seated on, where Margaery stares ahead, quite contented simply to hold Alayne’s hand and make no more of it. Alayne feels a rush of affection for her at that moment, and wishes more than anything she knew how to speak to her without putting her foot in her mouth every time.

The door opens at just that moment, and two very short people enter, both with curly brown hair and wide green eyes. The girl’s are a little more cheerful – _Meera, then_ – while the boy’s are melancholy – _and Jojen_. Between the two of them, they look as if they could have erupted from within the forest-y wallpaper itself.

“Lady Meera and Lord Jojen Reed,” Meera announces, grandly striking a pose, before cheekily grinning and walking over to the couch. “But call us by our names, please.”

Alayne rises to her feet with Olenna and Margaery, and takes Meera’s hand as it is offered to her. Jojen merely sits down on the couch across from them without ceremony.

“I take it you are the girl, then,” Meera is saying. “I must say, you certainly look the part. We’ve had girls in who didn’t even speak Russian.”

“I promise, that will not be an issue,” Alayne laughs, replying in her mother tongue, just as Meera had introduced herself.

“Excellent,” Meera says. “I take it that Olenna and Margaery here found you, then? And they’ve explained how this works?”

“Yes,” Alayne says, sitting back down as Meera does. “As I understand it, any prospective Sansas must be interviewed by you both to establish legitimacy.”

“Indeed. And we won’t go easy on you, I’m afraid,” Meera says, arching an eyebrow challengingly.

“I wouldn’t expect it,” Alayne says honestly. Olenna’s vigorous testing had put that thought out of her head.

“You’ll find her quite acceptable, I’m sure,” Olenna says, smiling calmly.

“We’ll see.” Jojen’s voice nearly startles Alayne with its depth, considering his small stature. His deep green eyes watch her carefully, and Alayne can’t help but feel nervous under them.

“Well! Let’s get to work then,” Meera says, unbothered. “Now tell me, Sansa … where were you born?”

Meera asks her all kinds of questions, but Alayne is prepared for them all. Olenna had been very thorough indeed. Beside her, Margaery’s steady warmth gives her courage to keep on talking, though it feels like hours are passing. She tells the Reeds about her childhood – or what she assumes it must have been – as well as the names of people and places, the idiosyncrasies of an entire family she’s never met.

But finally they ask a question she isn’t expecting, and it pulls her up short. Beside her, Margaery stiffens as Meera speaks it.

“How did you escape the palace during the October Revolution, when so many of your family did not, your grace?”

Margaery and Olenna didn’t prepare her for this. She feels herself panicking, and stutters, trying to stall for time. Olenna says something about the question being impertinent, but Alayne isn’t listening.

_The palace_. She thinks of its tall walls, gilding stripped away over the years. The dusty smell in the air. The faded paintings, still bright in her mind’s eye, as if she could see them the way they were meant to be seen. Unconsciously, Alayne fiddles with her necklace. _Together in Paris_. _The palace_.

“There was – a girl,” she says, suddenly.

Meera stops mid-sentence, looking perplexed.

All eyes are on Alayne, and she looks down, struggling to find the words.

“Go on,” Jojen says, a spark in his eyes the first sign of interest in the proceedings. It gives Alayne something to believe in.

“She was … I think we played together, sometimes,” Alayne frowns, a strange feeling coming over her, like déjà vu. “She … she found me there, in the playroom … she opened a wall …” But she can’t remember the rest.

She shakes her head and laughs, nervously. “I’m so sorry. How silly of me, walls opening …”

But Jojen looks sharply at her, as if he knows something. It makes her uneasy and strengthens her resolve all at once.

Meera raises her eyebrows. “Well … Jojen," she says, looking at her brother. "If you’re convinced, then I am.” 

Jojen scrutinises Alayne one last time before looking at his sister. He nods, wordlessly.

Olenna gasps and claps her hands together, delighted, while Margaery sits up straight, strangely stiff. Alayne feels faint. But Jojen raises a hand to silence them before they can speak.

“We did warn you. She won’t see anyone. Her imperial highness, Arya – she’s declared that for the sake of herself and her brothers they will not see any more women claiming to be the lost duchess. Says it’s too hard on his highness Brandon’s health, especially,” Jojen says, the most words they’ve heard out of him the whole meeting.

Olenna looks fit to despair when Alayne turns to her, feeling lost. She cannot see how Margaery reacts. But then –

“However,” Jojen says, voice delicately soft. “I’ll admit, you … answered questions other girls were never able to. So …”

“… Perhaps something can be arranged,” Meera finishes for him, grinning excitedly.

Olenna laughs and pulls Alayne in close to hug, whispering congratulations in her ear. Margaery stands up and begs for a washroom, and from within Olenna’s surprisingly strong arms, Alayne watches her go, curiously. Perhaps Margaery had been as nervous as she was, but hid it better. Margaery always hides her true feelings better than Alayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gee, I wonder what Margaery's upset about ...? ;)
> 
> Let me know what you thought - I think this is the longest chapter yet!


	14. Margaery

Meera is quick to explain that their only opportunity for some time to see the Stark siblings will be that very evening, at the Russian ballet – which apparently the Stark siblings never miss. She’s more than enthusiastic in arranging a shopping trip for the four of them (Jojen begging off), seeming to find great excitement in the prospect of dressing Alayne up in the prettiest dresses they can find. Alayne, of course, is humble and shy as usual – yet excited too, underneath it all. Margaery can see it in her eyes.

Unfortunately, Margaery is having a very hard time thinking of anything other than the fact that Alayne is almost certainly the _real_ Sansa Stark, and that is – that –

She’d never told anyone about it, which is the rub, isn’t it? Not even Olenna knows. Olenna always thought of Margaery as a proper little lady, back when they were rich and their name meant something. But before the revolution stole her innocence with her parents and brothers, before she learned to become whatever was needed for the present situation, Margaery used to rebel in her own little ways. Like sneaking about the palace as a child on trips to the capital, discovering hidden doorways and servants’ passages. Places a young lady was not supposed to go.

Places she could hide in, with another little redheaded girl, when danger came.

She remembers that she lost track of Garlan, who was supposed to be taking care of her. She never saw him again. She remembers running to the playroom where the royal children used to shriek and laugh, and once or twice she’d shared an apple with one of the siblings. There was a hidden doorway behind a hanging, and a passage that led to the outside world in one direction, and deeper into the bowels of the palace in the other. She planned to hide herself away there, to wait for Garlan, or Willas, or – _somebody_.

But then there was Sansa. Frantically searching the playroom, crying quietly. Margaery knew who she was, of course, having had occasion to meet the Stark siblings with her family at balls and affairs of state. But Sansa didn’t recognise her, standing there frozen on the threshold, her hiding place seemingly already occupied.

“Come on,” Margaery had said, confused as to why Sansa was hesitating. “They’re coming! We all have to run!”

“The jewellery box,” Sansa sniffled. “I had to come back for it. Mother _promised_.”

And clutched in her tiny fist, something silver glinted.

“Well, you’ve got it now,” Margaery huffed. “Let’s go! We need to run!”

She had grabbed hold of Sansa’s hand, and pulled her into the tiny passageway behind the hanging. By Sansa’s gasp, she knew that Sansa must not have known about it – perhaps none of the siblings did. But just as she shut the door behind her, a man had entered the playroom, and Margaery had frozen, squeezing Sansa’s hand tight in warning.

“Sansa? Darling, are you in here?” The man’s voice was sweet, like medicine syrup.

Beside her, Sansa’s breathing quickened. Margaery reached over, held on to her arm as well as her hand, praying silently for Sansa not to make any noise.

“You must come out, my sweetling,” the man continued. “There are bad men. They’re coming to the palace. Your mother …” Here his voice seemed to fail him. “Your mother wanted me to come get you. To keep you safe.”

Margaery frowned. She didn’t recognise the man’s voice – was he a friend of the royal family? Did Sansa know him?

She had turned to Sansa in the dark, but the expression on the other girl’s face told her everything she needed to know. Even in the dimness of the passageway, Sansa’s wide eyes were unmistakeably terrified.

“My sweet girl,” the man said, practically whispering now, suddenly close to the door behind the hanging. “If you are here, you know you can trust me. Your mother asked me to keep you safe. I promise. I won’t hurt you.”

It was too much for Sansa. Whoever the man was, he must have scared her witless – because the next thing Margaery knew, the hand held tight in her own vanished, and Sansa’s footsteps were thundering along the passageway as she ran towards the outside world. Margaery would have followed her – cursed herself for years for not doing so – but the door burst open, and a man came through, seemingly blind to Margaery standing terrified in the darkness. He ran after Sansa, whose red hair was whipping behind her, with some difficulty. being too big for the tiny passageway – but run he did, calling Sansa’s name.

And Margaery, hardly eleven years old, just stood there. And did nothing.

When their footsteps faded and Margaery began to assume they’d reached the outside world once more, she turned to find another way out, through the end of the passageway that led deeper into the palace – but then. At her feet, a glint of silver.

The jewellery box. Sansa must have dropped it.

Without thinking, Margaery had pocketed it. She’d made her way out into the outside world once more eventually, and found Loras too – and then it wasn’t long before Olenna found them, and they fled together. But the rest of her family died that day, or perhaps in the weeks after. And Margaery has been living under the assumption that Sansa died too, for a very long time. Until now. Until Alayne.

They’re in a department store full of choking perfumes and overly friendly assistants when Margaery suddenly can’t stand it anymore and pulls Olenna aside, away from Meera and Alayne exclaiming over some pretty fabric.

“She’s the real deal,” Margaery blurts out. “Grandmother, she’s Sansa. She’s – actually Sansa.” She’s terrified that Alayne-Sansa will look over and see her.

“I know dear, I was half-convinced myself,” Olenna replies, browsing a display of gloves. “We’re in it without a doubt.”

Margaery clenches her teeth. “No – no, you don’t understand. What she said about the girl. The girl who opened the wall. It was _me_. I helped her escape, the night I stole the jewellery box. She was remembering _me_.”

Olenna makes no sign of surprise, only slowing to a stop in front of a pair of black leather gloves. She turns to Margaery, looking right into her soul. Margaery stares back, desperate to convince her of the truth. Of the one thing she never told Olenna about, when Olenna knows everything else.

Whatever Olenna sees, it convinces her. But being Olenna Tyrell, she masks the shock well.

“You might have mentioned that earlier, my dear,” she says mildly.

It’s all Margaery can do not to scream. “What do we do?”

“What do you mean, what do we do? This changes nothing. The plan goes ahead exactly as it is. Only this time, we’re honest folk.” Olenna sounds pleased by the idea.

Margaery pauses, uncertain of how to convey what she means – what it is that’s got her confused, that makes her heart pound like it hasn’t since she was a girl. But the pause is all Olenna needs to read it all on Margaery’s face. Her expression clears.

“Oh, my rose. I knew you liked her, but love?” She sounds disappointed.

“Don’t.”

“People in our position can’t afford love, Margaery,” Olenna says. “I’ve always raised you as such. If you had a chance to marry her, I’d encourage it. But better to take the money and go, my dear. She need never know that we weren’t sure about her identity. It makes no difference.”

Margaery says nothing by way of reply, simply turning away sharply. She looks back at Alayne, smiling shyly as Meera leads her by the arm around the store, chattering good-naturedly about the price of this and that.

For a moment, Alayne looks back at her, that sweet smile fading a little as she takes in whatever look Margaery must be wearing. Margaery forces herself to smile, waving a few fingers at her cheekily. Alayne laughs in surprise at the silly gesture. Margaery’s heart aches and rages, wishing she knew what to do – to say –

How to be honest.

They spend the rest of the afternoon buying up the town, and as the evening approaches, they make their way back to their respective homes to dress for the ballet. Meera assures Olenna, Margaery, and Alayne that all they need do is show up at the royal box during the intermission, and she will do the rest – it’s too little a plan for Margaery’s liking, but it’s what they’ve got. At Renly’s flat, Loras and the man himself are delighted to know that things are going well, and Loras reassure Alayne chivalrously that she’ll be perfect when Alayne stammers out some doubt in her ability to meet royalty. Margaery thinks involuntarily, _you are royalty_ , and quickly busies herself by doing her hair before she can think anything more.

So it is that Margaery, in a red gown that shimmers in the lamp-light, Olenna in an expensive fur coat, and Alayne in a modest black shawl make their way to the ballet that evening. Loras and Renly once again stay away, though they have their own gathering to attend that night – something about a Rainbow Guard, whatever that is – and so the flat will be left empty.

The theatre itself is a glittering building, with golden details and real flowers everywhere, meticulously attended it. Inside, Margaery can almost remember what the palace in St. Petersburg used to look like, long before it began to decay and she got used to thinking of it as little more than a place to sleep.

She’s just organising what to do with their jackets at the bottom of the staircase, chatting to some usher, when she hears Alayne calling her name. She whips around, eyes scanning the crowed for her – and there, at the top of the stairs.

Oh dear.

Alayne is standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at Margaery with patience. Her gown … her gown hugs her figure, every curve revealed. The plain dress Margaery got her pales in comparison to this silvery, shimmering, clinging thing. And with her hair swept up into an up-do, Alayne’s neck and shoulders are completely bare, no longer modestly covered by the shawl.

Margaery swallows.

_Duchess. She’s a duchess_.

Alayne inclines her head towards the entrance to the theatre room, looking nervous, and Margaery realises she’s been staring. She hurries up the stairs, trying not to look flustered. Olenna appears from somewhere, unnervingly silent as usual, and the three of them find their seats quickly before the ballet begins.

Once seated, Olenna produces a pair of opera glasses from nowhere and begins to scrutinise the crowd. After some minutes, she makes a little ‘a-ha!’ noise, and hands the glasses to Margaery, jerking her head towards a box seat on the other side of the theatre. Curious, Margaery raises the glasses to her eyes and looks where Olenna is pointing. It takes a moment, but then Margaery understands what she’s looking at.

There are three people in the box, talking quietly amongst themselves. A man with a sombre expression and jet-black hair sits beside a nearly identical young woman, slight in figure and energetically gesturing. Beside her is a young man with red hair, just the slightest bit lower than the others due to the wheelchair he is seated in.

So. These are the famous Stark siblings. Jon, Arya, and Brandon.

_Well, Alayne deserves to know who she’ll be meeting_.

“Alayne?”

Alayne glances up from the program. “Yes?”

“Come look,” Margaery says, holding up the opera glasses for Alayne to take.

Alayne takes the glasses in a gloved hand and raises them to her eyes, looking confused.

“Over there.” Margaery uses a hand to direct Alayne’s gaze towards the box seats where the Stark siblings sit. It takes a moment, but then Alayne gasps, raising a hand prettily to her mouth. Even her shock appears graceful.

“At least you’ll know them when you see them,” Margaery says, smiling tightly.

Alayne lowers the glasses from her eyes slowly, but her gaze lingers on the other side of the theatre. For a moment it seems as if she’s forgotten Margaery is there.

And then the lights go down, and the show is beginning.

As the show progresses, Margaery tries not to pay too close attention to the way that Alayne is currently shredding her program into tiny bits. But it’s difficult when the pieces continue to land on her lap, so finally, she reaches a hand over and takes Alayne’s hand in her own. Alayne jumps, but Margaery just leans in under the cover of the dark to whisper in her ears, “It’s all right. You’ll be fine.”

Alayne says nothing back, but squeezes her hand, not letting go. Margaery’s heart pounds, traitor that it is. Without her permission, her thumb begins to stroke Alayne’s hand, back and forth. To the rhythm of her heart. Through their gloves, Margaery cannot feel Alayne’s skin, but the warmth of her lap – that Margaery _can_ feel, and it makes a wretched heat rise up from somewhere deep inside her.

Eventually, the first act ends, and the intermission begins. The lights come up, and Margaery takes her hand back, aching to keep holding on before she loses Alayne forever.

“It’s time,” she whispers, instead.

Alayne nods, looking pale. Together, the three of them rise from their seats and make their way towards the box. It’s only a short walk away, and Margaery can practically feel the fear vibrating off Alayne the whole way. At the door to the box, she takes a deep breath, and turns to Alayne.

“Wait here. I’ll call you in,” Margaery says.

Olenna takes Alayne’s arm, patting it. “I’ll wait with you. Don’t worry, dear.”

Alayne nods, incapable of speech. Margaery knows how she feels.

But she’s better at hiding it.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, smiling reassuringly, before turning to the door and knocking, entering without waiting for a reply. Meera, as promised, is waiting, along with two silent bodyguards standing outside the royal box

“Tell their imperial highnesses I’ve found the grand duchess Sansa. She’s waiting right outside,” Margaery announces, seeing no reason to beat around the bush.

“I’m sorry, madam – they will see _no one_ ,” Meera says, playing her role perfectly. Even at a time like this, it’s almost amusing.

But then a voice interrupts from behind the drawn curtains that frame the box.

“Tell whoever that is that we’ve seen enough Sansas to last a lifetime,” Arya Stark announces, not even bothering to turn her back.

Margaery sets her teeth, trying to think of how to respond.

“It’s rude to interrupt a private box like that too,” Brandon adds. He sounds almost … bored.

Margaery opens her mouth to reply, but turning back to Meera, she can see that the other woman is losing her nerve.

“You’d better go,” Meera interrupts, looking worried.

“Let us live our lives in peace,” another male voice says quietly. Jon, then. Through the curtain, Margaery can see them all sitting there, but none of them even bother to look at her.

She _can’t_ just let it end like this.

“My name is Margaery,” she says quickly, raising her voice so the Stark siblings will have no choice but to hear her. “Of the house Tyrell. I was once a member of your court, your majesties. I even lived in the palace for a time.”

Arya snorts. “Well that’s one we haven’t heard before.” She stands up to look at Margaery, though, _finally_ – and the others follow, Jon standing like a statue beside his chair, and Brandon wheeling himself around.

“It’s true, I swear. Please,” Margaery says, now worried. Alayne _is_ Sansa. It’s not a game anymore, not a con – they _have_ to believe her –

“It’s usually men who train young girls to be like her. You are different in that respect. But no matter how much you’ve painted her and trained her, it’s not her.” Brandon says, calmly.

“But if you’ll just _listen_ –” Fear is rising in Margaery’s throat, the situation quickly spiralling out of her control.

“Wait,” Jon says, and for a moment she feels hopeful.

 “Margaery – like Marg. The woman in St. Petersburg, advertising for girls to audition for the role of a lifetime. I’ve heard of you,” Jon says, sounding disgusted, and Marg’s blood runs cold. “And your grandmother. Fallen on hard times, I suppose. Who’s in charge of the operation – you or her?”

Margaery opens her mouth, but no words come out, because he’s _right_. She’s a conwoman, with no proof. No proof beyond the memories of a lifetime ago that Alayne really is who Margaery says she is.

“Remove her,” Arya says, bluntly.

The two bodyguards, who have stood stony and silent the whole time, grab Margaery by the arms without a second’s hesitation, and throw open the door before tossing her to the floor, Margaery resorting to _begging_ the Stark siblings to listen the whole time.

She falls hard on her knees outside the box seats, and the door closing firmly behind her makes her want to panic.

But then she looks up. Straight into Alayne’s eyes – and she can see the hurt, the betrayal, and the _anger_ there –

Alayne has heard every single word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Looks like the jig is up! Let me know what you thought, I hope to have the next update out much sooner this time! (School has absolutely been destroying my creativity at the moment.)


	15. Sansa

She’s packing her bags, trying to busy her mind by preparing to leave. She doesn’t know where. She doesn’t care. It’s too much to think that she was tricked – too much to think that Marg, the woman she –

It’s too much.

The flat is empty but for her. She hopes that she can leave before Renly and Loras return – they seem pleasant enough, but she cannot risk seeing them. She doesn’t know how much they knew about the con. She took a key hidden in the stairwell to get in, having been shown it by Olenna before they left for the ballet. She had laughed. Thought Olenna too clever by half for discovering it.

_Too clever_. That was the problem with the Tyrell women. They’d looked at her and seen a naïve little girl, ready to believe she was a duchess at a moment’s notice, and she had been stupid enough to go along with every word they said. She can’t stop replaying the night in her head. What Margaery said, scrambling up from the ground and chasing her outside, leaving Olenna behind.

_“It’s not what it sounded like. I swear, Alayne – I’m not lying to you.”_

_“Conwomen? The both of you – you held **auditions** –”_

_“Just let me explain! You were different. You **are** different. I’m telling the truth –”_

_“What, now that you have to? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I ever thought – and I actually felt –”_

_“It’s different! Alayne, I swear, you’re the **real** Sansa –”_

_“Stop **lying** to me!”_

Tears fill her eyes and threaten to spill over, and she huffs quietly to herself, desperately willing them away. She’s always cried too easily, she doesn’t know how to make it stop once she starts. Apparently she’s embarrassingly trusting on top of that, too. _God_.

But before she can think to berate herself any further, there’s a knock at the door.

“Go away, Marg!” She tosses a scarf into her bag particularly violently. The last person she wants to see right now is Margaery.

But the door creaks open anyway, and she’s just opening her mouth to give Margaery a piece of her mind, or cry – she hasn’t decided which – when a male voice interrupts her thoughts.

“It’s not that conwoman, I’m afraid.”

She gasps, turning quickly to see a young man in a wheelchair, sitting tiredly in the doorway. He smiles wryly, no joy in it.

“She’s clever. A stupider person might have gone for Arya, forgetting her self-defence training, assuming a woman would be easy to kidnap. But she stole my car instead. I can’t defend myself, you see,” Brandon Stark says, gesturing to his thin legs.

She swallows, feeling terribly guilty all of a sudden, though she never asked Margaery to do such a foolhardy thing.

“I’m sorry – I never, never asked her to do this, I didn’t know she was trying to … to convince you all. Still. After – everything.” She closes her mouth, willing herself to be quiet. She’s caused enough damage.

Brandon sighs, and pushes the chair forward a little, into the room. He reaches up and swings the door shut behind him, before levelling a look of deep weariness at her, cutting her like a knife.

“We’re tired. The three of us. We may not agree on much but we agreed on that. No more searching, we said. No more lies. We have accepted that Sansa is dead. Surely you can understand that.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, her heart aching for him, for his siblings. “I know … something of how you feel. I only ever wanted to know if I … if I belonged to a family. Your family.”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, internally cursing her naivete. “Stupid of me,” she whispers.

Brandon stares at her, something curious, almost amused, inside the sad eyes. “You’re a good actress,” he says, still with that sad look. “One of the best, truly.”

He lapses into silence, for a moment, but then continues, seemingly to his own surprise as well as hers. “Arya was always suspicious, you know. But I had to learn the hard way not to believe in every girl who walked through the door. And Jon, well … I couldn’t say, but I think he lay somewhere in between.”

“I’ve lived as a bastard, just like him,” she blurts out, not sure where the words are coming from. “No parents to my name at all. I think I understand something of how he feels, now.”

Brandon wheels himself forward, slowly. “Do you?” His voice is guarded.

“I …” She swallows, and reaches up to fiddle with her necklace, the one nervous habit Olenna couldn’t seem to cure her of. “I don’t remember much of anything,” she confesses, her voice trembling. “Olenna and Margaery did try to train me. I know it was dishonest, but … I can’t remember anything from before I was ten years old. Only flashes, glimpses … I don’t even know my real name. I was just another orphan of the revolution. I thought … maybe it was possible …”

“What’s that?” Brandon’s voice sounds strained now.

She blinks. “Sorry?”

“Your necklace,” he says, staring at her neck with something indefinable in his eyes. “Where did you get that?”

She blinks down at it, before pulling up a little dresser stool to sit by Brandon. She slips it off her head and hands it to him. “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve had it as long as I can remember. The words on it – _together in Paris_. They were the only clue I had, that’s why I’m here.”

Brandon looks troubled, something inexplicably haunting passing over his face. Her heart begins to beat faster, though she cannot fathom why. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something familiar, and her eyes widen – it’s the jewellery box, the one Olenna showed her on the boat.

“It was our secret,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Well, not much of a secret between six of us. From mother, to us. Robb and Sansa and Arya, and me, and Rickon. A music box to play lullabies when she had to leave for Paris. And a key. For each of us to hold onto.” His hand shakes.

He slips the shape of the wolf’s head into a groove on the side of the box, one she could not have picked out had he not shown it to her, and turns it. Like magic, two tiny figures rise from the box, spinning mechanically as the music box plays a tinny tune.

Quietly, barely above a whisper, he begins to hum the lullaby. His voice shakes, with fear or grief. He’s barely able to hum along at all.

… But he doesn’t really need to. Because she _knows_ that song. It takes her a moment, but then the lyrics come back to her, in snatches of song. She starts to whisper-sing the words, terrified of breaking the fragile peace of this moment.

“Soon you’ll be … home with me … once upon a December.”

The song ends.

The little figures sink back down into the box.

She’s scared to look up, terrified of the enormity of the truth pressing down on her.

But she does. She looks up into Brandon’s eyes, and they’re filled with tears, mirroring her own.

“Sansa?” he whispers.

“Bran,” she whispers back, and throws her arms around him, unable to say anything more, uncomprehending – knowing only that the boy in her arms is her _family_ , and finally, she’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAH!! The scene I've been waiting weeks to write!!
> 
> Let me know what you thought, I'm so excited to finally publish this chapter!


	16. Margaery

Margaery doesn’t take the money.

How can she, really? Olenna is more than happy to accept the reward, but Margaery. Margaery lied to the woman she l–

To _Alayne-Sansa-Alayne_ , for weeks. She broke her heart with all her lies, raised a fury in her that Margaery would never have thought her capable of. And Margaery doesn’t deserve a _reward_ for all that suffering.

So, for once she doesn’t follow her grandmother’s path. Olenna, of course, is more than happy to live it up in Paris on the Starks’ dime. But not Margaery. She stays with Loras and Renly, still, trying to figure out what to do next, where to go. She cannot live off her brother’s lover’s money, and she doesn’t want to be around her grandmother. Not now … Maybe not for a long time.

“Are you certain?” Jojen Reed’s voice startles her out of her reverie, and she jumps to attention, smiling blandly at him across his desk.

“I’m certain. I could never be tied down by something as arbitrary as money,” Margaery says airily, ignoring the fact that the entire con had been based upon making as much money as possible. “I don’t want my part of the reward.” _I don’t deserve it_.

Jojen scrutinises her with his unnerving, deep-green eyes for a few moments. If Margaery wasn’t a skeptic by nature, she’d think he was reading her mind – seeing her shame for what it truly was. But Margaery is a practical person, and knows that for all that still waters run deep in Jojen, they cannot run that deep.

“You know,” Jojen says softly, folding his hands under his chin, “Miss Tyrell, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had something to hide.”

Margaery stares blankly at him, confused. He knows she was trying to scam them. Why would she try to hide that now?

He sighs. “What I mean to say is that I didn’t believe a single thing the duchess Sansa spoke the other day, when you first came here. Nothing except one memory.”

Margaery swallows, looks down at her hands, squeezed together in her lap.

“That wasn’t the look of an actress trying to remember her lines. That was the look of a half-remembered dream, on her face. And as for yours …”

“Please, don’t,” Margaery says firmly. She doesn’t want to know what her face told him. Doesn’t want to relive the moment ever again – the realisation that not only had she lied, she’d lied when there had never been any need, to someone she cared for.

“Very well,” Jojen sighs. “But if I may offer some advice?”

Margaery wants to say no, but then she suspects she’s already done a little too much in the way of offending him already, though his face seems calm. She nods jerkily.

“If you have an opportunity to be happy, you should take it,” he says simply. “Many of us who survived the revolution lost our loved ones along the way – I know your family is much smaller than it was, and you understand. Don’t torture yourself even further.”

Margaery doesn’t reply, simply standing and bowing her head, avoiding Jojen’s eyes. He nods in return and she leaves the room without another word. He doesn’t try to stop her.

She could curse herself for leaving too soon, however, when descending the stairs on her way out she hears Alay- _Sansa’s_ voice in the great hall. God above, will this family – this house never let her go?

“I can’t believe this. If I ever had any doubt about you, the amount of lace on that dress has absolutely killed it,” a female voice grumbles.

“Really?” Sansa replies eagerly.

“Yes,” the other voice replies, more softly now. “You always loved ridiculous dresses like that. I can’t stand them.”

Arya, then. The royal duchesses seem to be getting along all too well.

Margaery finally rounds the corner, keeping her head down – but she must pay her respects to former royalty. It’s in her blood.

Arya and Sansa’s giggles fall quiet as they notice her.

“Your graces,” she says quietly, executing a small curtsy.

“Margaery,” Sansa says, equally as soft. She sounds disappointed.

Margaery hates to think that the last time she hears Sansa say her name will be in disappointment, but it’s for the best.

“I’m just on my way out. I’ve a train waiting.”

“A train? You’re not staying in Paris, with your family?” Sansa sounds surprised.

“I would have thought you’d want to stay and claim your reward,” Arya says, sounding quite a bit more sceptical.

“No, I –” Margaery hesitates, swallows her words. _For the best_. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Reed about it. It’s all settled.”

“Oh,” Sansa says. Glancing up, Margaery can see the disappointment in her voice is upon her face too. Her hands are folded stiffly before her, settled in layers of white and amber lace – a dress for her celebratory ball, perhaps. Arya, meanwhile has one hip cocked in men’s trousers, and is frowning.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” Margaery says, rudely hurrying to rush past. As she pushes through, Arya stepping back to give her room, her hand brushes Sansa’s skirts and for a moment she wishes she could turn around and beg for her forgiveness, could hold her just once because she goes.

But Sansa has a family now, and doesn’t need a dead weight like Margaery pulling her down.

So Margaery continues towards the door, and closes it gratefully behind her as she steps out into the sunlight. She doesn’t think about Sansa’s face, the last expression she’ll ever see on it one of sadness and regret at ever having let someone like Margaery into her life.

Margaery will find her own way, and she won’t reminisce about a pretty girl from Leningrad who thought Margaery wanted the best for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update. Had some pretty huge personal issues. My grandmother passed away and school got super busy, plus I got a job. Hope this makes up for the wait.


	17. Sansa-Alayne

The thing about having a family again – a family of three whole other people – is that she never gets a second to be alone.

But then, she’s spent too much of her life alone, inside.

So from the moment she’s woken by maids who enter her room without asking, doing their duties, she’s surrounded by people. She spends mornings deep in conversation with her siblings at breakfast, and afternoons with at least one of them by her side as they arrange the upcoming celebration ball for her. Balls aren’t much the done thing anymore, but on such an occasion as this, she’s assured, it’s appropriate. She doesn’t question it – everyone knows better than her when it comes to the affairs of formal royals.

And they are firmly _former_ royals. It might have been questioned, once upon a time – if Robb or Rickon (whose faces she now recognises in pictures, in her memories) had lived, then those loyal to the Stark family might have had someone to rally around. But none of the remaining Starks are what’s wanted in royalty.

Jon is a bastard, publicly, and privately … Privately, the shame of _two_ households, Stark and Targaryen.

(And that is a secret she has become privy to on pain of silence, forever – the bastard child of two royal houses is too dangerous a position for Jon to live in.)

Then, Arya, a girl – too young and the wrong gender to boot for loyalists, sticklers to patrilineal tradition. Never mind that she has all of the Stark bullheadedness.

And Bran, apart from his youth, has been in his chair since the end of the war. The perfect prince in every way but one.

They are not worth rallying around, risking lives for. They no longer claim their birthright, and neither will Sansa. Sansa Stark is just a name for her. She’s still the girl who grew up in an orphanage run by an unfeeling man, with scarce food and scarcer warmth. It troubles her, to be where she is. Warm, safe, loved – wandering the hallways of a home with more rooms than she can count.

The night of the ball, she’s hanging back, hidden behind a curtain on a private balcony reserved for the Starks alone.

“You seem melancholy today, Sansa,” Jon says, interrupting her thoughts as he pushes through the curtain unexpectedly.

She flinches, unable to help it – but he notices.

“You know we don’t have to call you that,” he says softly.

“It’s my name,” she replies, though it doesn’t feel like it.

“But it hasn’t been for the past eight years, has it?” Jon counters, gently. “Names are a funny thing. I’ve been a Snow all my life, but I might have been a Stark … or another royal name.” He skirts around the edges of the truth, careful even now, when they are alone. “But I am happy to be Snow.”

“You don’t want to be a Stark?” she questions, confused.

He smiles, something sad in it. “Once. It was all I dreamed of as a boy. When Robb … when I played with my brothers, but never sat with them at table.”

“What changed your mind?”

He leans back against the railing, looking pensive. “Ah, well … a man once said to me that I should never forget what I am, for surely the world will not. He said that I must make it my strength, and then it could never be my weakness, could never hurt me.”

“Was he a … I mean …”

“A bastard? No. But he was … not what his father wanted from him. And that made him a bastard in his father’s mind, if not reality. He understood what it was to not be wanted, to be a great inconvenience for everyone he loved.”

“You are not an inconvenience,” she protests.

“I was. To the court of Russia, I always would be. That is why they tried so hard to –”

He cannot finish, something dark flashing over his face. She reaches out to touch his arm, and he pats her hand, gratefully.

“The point,” he says, firmly, “is that a name is what you choose for yourself. And if you can never quite be Sansa again, that does not change who you are. Sansa or Alayne, it makes no difference to us. We are just grateful that you live at all.”

A fierce rush of gratitude rises in Alayne’s chest, and she throws her arms around Jon, unthinkingly. He startles at first, surprised by her sudden display of affection, but he quickly musters and hugs her back, just as fiercely.

“Thank you, Jon,” she whispers to him. He hums in response.

She pulls back, intending to head back into the ballroom, but before she can Jon speaks once more.

“And if it’s about that Tyrell girl, don’t stress about it. If you’re Alayne to her you’re still Alayne to us too.”

Alayne snorts, finding strength in the rush of emotion for her brother. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her. She’s probably living it up with her millions as we speak.”

Jon’s eyebrows rise spectacularly high at that. “But she – I thought you knew. She didn’t take the money.”

Everything suddenly becomes very slow.

“She – she didn’t?” Alayne whispers, confused.

“No. Not a penny. Her grandmother did, she’s here tonight. But the younger Ms Tyrell, she left without a cent. I was given to understand she’s leaving the country.”

Alayne cannot speak for the emotional turmoil sitting like a thundercloud in her chest.

As Jon murmurs his apologies, needing to head back quickly to assist some people called Ygritte and Sam, time seems to pass in flashes. Alayne is unable to stop Jon’s words from replaying in her head. _She didn’t take the money_.

She thinks back on her conversation with Margaery, right before she left. Surely – Alayne thought that Margaery had said it was all settled? But then, the more she thinks about it, the more she realises that Margaery never actually confirmed that she _took_ the money.

Alayne feels sick with that knowledge, seeing Margaery’s blank expression as she left.

_If not for the money, then why_?

The same thoughts plague her as she steps away from the balcony, moving, as if in a trance, towards the great hedge maze in the gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slow update! I'm so sorry. BUT WE'RE ON THE HOME STRETCH. HOORAY!


	18. Margaery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucked up the chapter count, my bad.

She had not intended to come back.

Margaery feels foolish, and completely out of place in her travelling clothes at a ball as grand as this one. Her trousers in particular mark her as little more than a ruffian, and she’s promptly turned away when she attempts to get in through the door all the gentry appear to be using. She scowls and stalks away, figuring she’ll have to find another way in.

She doesn’t actually know what she’s going to do when she _does_ get in, just that … That she cannot leave Sansa with that disappointed look on her face. She cannot let that be the end of it.

That, and Loras had someone discovered what Margaery was planning on doing (leaving. It was a good plan.) He has confiscated her luggage until she settles things.

… But mostly, the first thing. It pains her to think of how resigned Sansa had sounded when she left. Sansa, in all likelihood, feels nothing more than friendship for Margaery. But friendships are worth salvaging.

At least that’s what Loras says, sentimental idiot that he is.

The night sky is full of stars and a half-moon tonight, and that, combined with the bright warm light of the party flooding out over the grounds, means Margaery is quick to spot a disused side entrance into the gardens. She waits until a particularly famous celebrity arrives, and the flash of bulbs and the clamour of excitement will hide her slipping away into the hedge maze.

Inside, the quiet is eerie. Margaery hadn’t realised how loud and obtrusive the ball was into the night until now. The gravel crunches quietly under her feet, but other than that, there is no noise, the world muffled by rows and rows of hedges and fences. She huffs a breath of annoyance, realising she’s going to have to navigate her way out of it to find a way into the mansion.

She alternates between right and left, hoping that somehow she’ll end up on the other side. Eventually she remembers reading somewhere that she ought to put her hand on the wall and stick to following it, so she does that, wondering how much time she’s wasted already and cringing at the thought.

And then, she hears a voice.

There’s a man. A man speaking barely above a whisper in the next row of hedges.

She slows her steps to a crawl, still inching towards the sound in the hopes that he can help her out – but as she moves ever closer, the hairs on the back of her neck rise, sending tingles down her back. Something is _wrong_ , but she cannot be sure what.

She forces her breathing to slow, taking soft breaths that puff out smoke in the cold. Straining her ears, she stops when she thinks she’s about a hedgerow away and listens.

“She was never supposed to die, sweetling. It is my greatest regret.”

Margaery’s blood runs cold with fear, and she could not move now if she tried.

“A little chaos was necessary, to get your father out of the way. To ensure that I would be in a position to save you all – well,” the man giggles, “Apart from your brothers, of course.”

With a growing horror, Margaery realises that the man is speaking to someone – someone as frozen, silent, and terrified as she is.

“But the war complicated matters. Even I could not have orchestrated something so spectacularly violent. And so … I am afraid, the seeds of discontent grew into a forest, and the forest burned itself to ashes, and I could not control what happened next. I promise you,” he says, voice edging into desperation, “I never, never meant for your mother to die. I should have been your father.”

Margaery frowns, despite her fear. Who the hell is this madman?

“Death came to them all, in the end. But not you, Sansa. You lived.”

For the second time that night, Margaery feels a thrill of fear in her veins overtake every rational thought. _Sansa – he’s got Alayne, he’s got Sansa, he’s got **Alayne**_.

The man continues to talk, and his words send a shudder of revulsion through her.

“And I’ve spent so long – so many years, looking for you. You’re more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. More beautiful than your mother ever was. You and I were meant to be together, Sansa. After all this time.”

“Who are you?” The voice belongs to Alayne, and Margaery feels her panic rise impossibly higher, the screaming between her ears becoming deafening.

“They used to call me Littlefinger, during the revolution. The advisor to the emperor. But I want you to call me Petyr, my sweet.”

_Littlefinger_. An advisor to the emperor indeed – his ‘advice’ had led to their downfall. Margaery can still hear her grandmother’s scathing words from many years before in her head. But he is _dead_ – Olenna had been sure of it. Littlefinger continues to talk, and Margaery moves closer, silently, straining to hear.

“You’re going to come with me now, Sansa. I meant to come for you before, but those Tyrells – they’re a sneaky lot. Your disappearance will be harder to explain now, but it doesn’t matter to me. I know you’ll understand.”

_A sneaky lot indeed_.

For the first time that night, Margaery feels something like fury take hold of her. _I kept her **safe**_.

She continues moving closer, feeling herself tense, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. She’s not actually sure what she’s going to do when she rounds the corner, but she must do _something_.

“I’ll never go with you,” Sansa spits, sounding angrier than Margaery’s ever heard her. She feels a rush of love for Sansa so fierce it nearly staggers her.

She’s managed to sneak up to the end of the hedgerow, now, and she slowly peeps around the corner, desperately hoping that Littlefinger will not be able to see her.

But she needn’t worry, as the man she sees is facing away from her, having eyes for no one but Sansa, standing frozen by the fountain at the centre of the hedge maze.

Margaery’s just about to leave her hiding spot and do _something_ when she spots the gun.

He’s got it pointing at Sansa, and his hand is shaking.

“ _YES, YOU WILL_!” He bellows, his voice cracking. He sounds completely unhinged.

Margaery stops breathing as he swings the gun around, wildly, seemingly unaware of what he’s doing.

“You’ll come with me, and be the woman I deserve, Sansa. You’re better than them, better than this. You’ll come with _me_ ,” he hisses.

And now his hand is steady, as he points it at Sansa with nothing less than complete determination.

“I deserve you,” he says. “And if I cannot have you, no one else will.”

Margaery sees red.

Without thinking – without a plan, with nothing but her instincts – Margaery sprints from her hiding place towards Littlefinger. He jerks at the noise, making a half-turn towards her, and Margaery thinks she can hear Sansa gasp, but in the next second the gun is swinging towards her and she hits him so hard they both go flying towards the ground. The last thing Margaery hears is a sickening _crack_ and Alayne’s voice crying out her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Littlefinger's a little OOC. My reasons are that in this fic he's been stuck stalking Sansa in Russia for literal years, whereas in canon he knows exactly where she is and has a plan for extracting her. Plus, like, he very much knows Catelyn's death is his fault in this fic, whereas in canon I feel like he could twist the truth and make it not his fault (to his mind, anyway.)


	19. Alayne

“ _Margaery_!” The cry is ripped from Alayne’s throat without her permission, something primal inside stopping her from remaining silent, despite the danger.

When she had entered the garden, she had never thought to find a murderer inside.

He had appeared from nowhere, out of the shadows and mist, as she contemplated the fountain, thinking of Margaery. The gun had been in his hand from the start, as she stared, utterly frozen, at his contorted face. She had had no doubt that he meant to kill her.

But instead he had whispered terrible things, confessed to killing her family instead. Confessed to an obsession with the mother she is still struggling to remember, and later _herself_.

She hadn’t seen Margaery come up behind him until it was too late, until the gun was already flying through the air.

And now she’s rushing forwards, her stupidly voluminous skirts billowing out behind her and dragging against the gravel as she stumbles towards Margaery’s still form, lying next to the man’s equally motionless body. Moonlight glints against the ground – on something red.

Heart in her throat, Alayne falls beside Margaery and turns her over, panicked.

“Margaery! Margaery, oh god. Margaery, wake up, _wake up_ ,” she pleads, babbling and shaking as she pulls Margaery onto her lap.

Margaery groans, and Alayne thinks she’s never heard something so beautiful.

Without thinking, she leans forward, with a cry of relief, to kiss Margaery’s forehead.

“What in god’s name just happened?” Margaery says, blinking her eyes open.

Tears gather in Alayne’s eyes. “You idiot. You idiot. You nearly died, what were you thinking?”

Margaery shakes her head, and grunts again, raising a hand to the back of her head. “I don’t know. I can’t … Oh.” Her face hardens. “That man – where is he?”

Alayne blinks. “Um, he –” She looks over to the prone form beside them, and comes to a chilling realisation, staring at the pool of blood beneath his head.

“I think – I think he’s dead,” she whispers.

Margaery’s eyes widen. “ _What_?”

She struggles to sit up, Alayne supporting her back, careful to ensure Margaery doesn’t fall again.

Margaery’s eyes settle on the body, and she loses all the colour in her face at once. “Oh.”

“I think – the gun went off, when you tackled him.”

“Right,” Margaery mumbles. She looks sickened, and Alayne knows that she cannot have that.

“Margaery,” Alayne says, softly. Margaery turns her face towards her, away from the body. “You saved my life. You saved me,” she repeats. “This is not your fault.”

“All right,” Margaery says, swallowing. “All right.”

For a moment, they sit in silence, staring at one another, Margaery tangled up in Alayne’s skirts, Alayne with her hand against Margaery’s back.

“I can’t believe you came back,” Alayne blurts out.

Margaery huffs something like a laugh. “I had to. Loras stole my luggage.”

“Oh,” Alayne says, trying not to be disappointed.

Margaery stutters, grabbing Alayne’s arms as she hurries to continue. “No, I mean – he said I was being stupid. That I couldn’t – that I couldn’t leave you without –”

“Without what?” Alayne says, feeling her heart beginning to race even as it has only just begun to calm down.

Margaery glances down, unable to look her in the eyes. “Without telling you how I feel about you.”

Alayne whispers the next words, barely above a breath. “And how is that?”

Margaery doesn’t answer her with words.

She pulls Alayne in close, hands never leaving Alayne’s arms, until her breath makes white curlicues against Alayne’s cheeks. Alayne doesn’t move, doesn’t dare when Margaery is this close. Margaery hesitates for just a moment before letting her eyes flutter closed –

– And then Margaery is kissing her, a gentle press of warmth against her lips. Alayne’s eyes slip closed in response, and a hand comes up to cradle Margaery’s head, burying itself in her curls. For a brief moment, Alayne forgets the world outside the maze, forgets the dead man beside them. There is nothing in the whole world to disturb her. Nothing matters but the woman whose lips are held, as gently as if Alayne will break, against her own.

A shout suddenly sees them break apart, wide-eyed.

There are voices and footsteps making their way through the maze, coming closer every second.

“Hello? Is there anyone in there? We thought we heard a gun go off!” A stranger’s voice comes floating through the darkness.

Margaery’s face is panicked as she looks towards Littelfinger’s body, surrounded by the pool of blood.

“Alayne – I mean, Sansa – your grace, I have to go – I can’t –”

“ _No_ ,” Alayne says, firmly.

Margaery stares at her in bewilderment.

“You’re not leaving. Not again. None of this is your fault – you saved my life. I’m witness to it. And no one – no one will miss a man like him,” Alayne says, voice growing stronger with every word.

“You have a family,” Margaery says, in a pained voice. “You can’t risk them for me.”

Alayne shakes her head, slipping a hand down to grip Margaery’s arm. “I’m not risking anything. That’s what family means – they’ll never abandon me. And I’ll never abandon you. Not ever.”

Margaery’s eyes shine with tears in the silver light of the moon. The voices are drawing nearer – it will not be long until they are discovered, and Alayne thinks she can her Jon’s low tones amongst them. She strokes Margaery’s arm, determined to reassure her. To keep her safe.

“Margaery,” she whispers, “Isn’t it time I took care of you, for once?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Just the epilogue to go!


	20. Epilogue

_Six months later._

 

Arya doesn’t tend to correspond overmuch through letters, preferring instead to use the telephone, or telegraphs when she must. So it’s a surprise to see a letter with her name on it, along with Bran and Jon’s, waiting on her bedside table one morning.

She frowns, before examining it more closely and determining that the names are written in Alayne’s hand. (She’s stopped calling her Sansa, for now at least. They are Starks – names matter less than family to them, and the girl who was Sansa has had far more adventures as Alayne.)

She’s desperate to open the letter, but figures she’d better go find her brothers first.

After knocking on Jon’s door – and then banging loudly on it when he doesn’t respond – she drags him out of bed towards Bran’s room, walking quickly. Jon barely says a word, merely grunting in annoyance as she grabs his hand in an attempt to hurry him along. But he’s never been a man of many words – or a morning person.

Finally, they reach Bran’s room. Arya knocks twice and enters without waiting for a reply.

“We’ve a letter from our sister,” she announces, shortly.

Bran, still in bed, suddenly looks wide awake.

“It’s addressed to all of us, so … I’m going to open it now and read it.”

“God. You could’ve warned me,” Jon grumbles.

Arya narrows her eyes at him.

“… But go on,” he finishes.

Arya glances at Bran, who simply nods his assent, before unfolding the letter and beginning to read.

“My dear family. Please do not be angry with me, and before you read on, please understand that I love you all and I will never abandon you.”

Arya pauses to swallow, nervous to read on.

“I have decided to elope. With Margaery, if you can all believe that. I know that we are not what could be considered a traditional couple, but we are in love, and we are happy. Were we able to find a priest who could make it official, we would.”

Arya smiles at that, and glances up at Jon, who is smiling too.

“I suppose I ought to have told her about Sam,” he murmurs, referring to the young man whose company he had kept only two years prior, and who both Arya and Bran had had the misfortune to run into kissing their brother.

“You were working up to it,” Bran says, gently.

Arya reads on.

“Do not fear, for we will come back – but for now, we are travelling once more, this time with the knowledge that we have a home to return to. I love you all. You are the best family I could ever have hoped to discover. À bientôt!”

By the time she’s finished reading, there’s a tear in Arya’s eye that she can’t quite shake off.

“Well,” Bran says, from his bed. “If that’s all – I think I shall go back to sleep. I trust my own sister to manage her affairs.”

“Bran!” Arya cries.

“It’d make for a good ending to a story,” Jon remarks, taking the letter to read over himself. “You must admit. An elopement and a promise to return.”

“No,” Arya smiles. “I think it’d make for the perfect beginning.”

 

_The end_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ... DONE ... WOW.
> 
> Please comment if you liked, I love to hear feedback and your thoughts!!

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


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